The Tales of Decimus Ultor
by Vasta
Summary: These are the tales of Gaius Decimus, called Ultor the Avenger exiled by his people, doomed to wander the earth, leading his men across the world, forever in search of a home they could not return to, seeking revenge against the man who condemned him…


The Tales of Decimus Ultor

_In a time long ago, in a land foreign to own, war was waged. It was an engagement between men, fought honorably on the field of battle, for glory and prestige. Great kings raise armies, do battle, and then the men return to their fields._

_Times have changed._

_The republic is young but strong. Enemies surround her, and many young men are called to fight on battlefields far from home, for causes they do not understand. Many will never see their homes, and those who do, find that things can never be the same._

_These are the tales of Gaius Decimus, called Ultor the Avenger; exiled by his people, doomed to wander the earth, leading his men across the world, forever in search of a home they could not return to, seeking revenge against the man who condemned him…_

I

The Land of the Barbarians

Rain fell from a silver sky onto the plains of southern Gaul. A crack of thunder echoed, drowning out the sound of marching and war cries. Gaius Decimus crouched down behind his shield, and set down his pilum. The young man, barely out of his teenage years, rubbed the foreign soil into his hands. He took a deep breath, then stood up, grabbed his pilum, and once more made sure his gladius was secure. Decimus glanced to his left at the man wearing a wolf's skin, holding the mighty standard of Rome in his hands.

The golden eagle stood tall over the other men in the formation, the very embodiment of Jupiter looking down upon the soldiers of Rome. Lighting struck, and thunder cracked. Decimus turned his eyes forward again.

"My men!" General Amulius Cornelius rode in front of the line. Decimus barely heard the general's words over the plink of rain upon his helmet. "Across this plain stand the barbarian rebels! They have attacked our allies, they have butchered women and children, and have spat upon Roman order. We have tried to reason with them, as you know, but barbarians are a foolish lot, not fit to negotiate with.

"And so, once again, for the honor of Rome, the gods ask you to raise arms. You have fought bravely in this campaign, and Jupiter shows his respect for you by this display of his awesome power!" Cornelius raised his hand up to the stormy sky. His words started to fade as he moved back towards the center, away from Decimus' position on the left column near the cavalry.

"The enemy will once again fall under our might! Battle hard, give no quarter, and crush these barbarians under your heels! Drive them into the forests! Remind them that we are truly the Sons of Mars!"

The army cheered, and Decimus joined in, beating his pilum upon his shield. It was mostly a courtesy gesture. Cornelius was an inept leader, only in charge of a legion because he happened to be a second cousin in the prominent Cornelian family. Cornelius started this so called campaign by instigating a mostly agreeable tribe along the Gallic border, and now sought to gain personal glory and a triumph at his men's expense.Two years he had already given to this man. Two years of fighting, hand to hand, with a seemingly endless amount of Gauls. Decimus had seen countless friends die right next to him, cut down by barbarians, or sacrificed by flawed tactics. Most of him, the reasonable portion, wanted to go home, take over his father's farm with his brothers, and marry that short girl with the long hair, Julia.

Decimus was drawn out of his reverie by the cry for velites. He squinted, and saw a line of Gauls charging towards the Romans. The javelin throwing velites two lines in front of him were reading their weapons, waiting for the order to unleash hell.

Decimus' own group of hastati seemed to shudder at the impending combat. They formed the front line of infantry behind the velites. Once they had expended their weaponry, they would retreat behind the hastati, and the mostly young and inexperienced soldiers would bring the fight to the Gauls.

The princeps, the heavy infantry made up of the older veterans, stood behind the hastati, ready to charge at the crucial moment. And finally, in the rear, the triarii, the spearmen, the last resort if all else failed. The general's cavalry was practically useless against the Gauls. Hopefully this time, Decimus prayed, the general wouldn't charge into his own men again.

"Velites! Fire!" The officer cried. Instantly, the men forming the first line of attack unleashed a wave of javelins into the air. The sky was darkened by the weapons, the silver rain clouds eclipsed by flying javelins.

Decimus took a deep breath as he heard the death knells of the enemy, cut down by the attack. He grasped his own pilum, and prepared for the order to fire. The velites turned and fell back between the lines of the hastati, and Decimus dug in.

Suddenly, the barbarians halted, stopping dead only a hundred meters from the Roman line. Uncertainty rushed over Decimus as he waited for an order. The Gallic tribesmen began to scream and chant in foreign tongues, and Decimus saw several of the other men in his group waver under the loud taunts.

The trumpet sounded. The order to charge had been given. At first, no one moved. The centurion in command of his group began to run at the enemy, preparing to throw his pilum, "Charge, you women! There is much killing to be done! Charge!"

The hastati began their charge, a light jog now, reading the ranged weapons. The princeps in reserve advanced behind them. The general's cavalry cut across to the right now, a move Decimus noted as odd. He was leaving the left flank open. His unit was on their own now, with no protection from the cavalry.

"Attack them! Cut them down and bring honor to your families!" Cornelius screamed as he rode behind the front line of infantry. "Slaughter them in the name of immortal Rome!"

The distance closed.

"Release pila!" The centurion screamed, and the men behind him, without stopping their run, launched their weapons into the heart of the Gallic line.

Decimus let out a cry as he threw his pilum, and watched as it sunk into the throat of a long haired Gaul. The shaft bent as it impaled him, a jet of thick crimson shooting from the wound. Decimus now drew his gladius, the steel of the sword raised up into the air as he began to sprint.

Closer still.

Gaius Decimus spoke a quiet mantra to Mars and the spirits of his ancestors, braced his shield, and took a deep breath.

The collision of men echoed like thunder.

Decimus crushed the first man in the charge. He stabbed his gladius into the downed Gaul's chest to make sure. An axe was swung at him, and Decimus countered with his shield, letting the weapon crash upon his defense. He forced the axeman's arm back up, and while he was caught off guard, pushed at him, exposing the unarmored barbarian. Decimus let out a roar as he slashed, cutting the Gaul's belly, and spilling his insides on the battlefield. He swung his sword again, and Decimus' arm shuddered as his sword impacted onto the Gaul's neck, hacking deep into his flesh, nearly severing his head.

A wooden club connected with the back of Decimus' helmet, and knocked him to the ground. Fighting through the momentary daze, he rolled onto his back and tried to raise his shield to protect himself. The Gaul lifted his club up again, ready to strike the coup de grace. Decimus kicked at the barbarian's knee as hard as he could, a desperation attack. The Gaul staggered a little bit, unable to deliver the final blow. Decimus kicked again and again, refusing to let up on his assault, until he finally felt the man's leg give way with a sickening crack. The barbarian let out a scream of agony as his leg bent in the opposite way. He collapsed and his hands went to his leg, clenching at the crippled limb.

Decimus made his way to his feet, lifted his shield up, and brought the bottom edge of the shield onto the throat of his enemy. He closed his eyes and turned his head as the barbarian's throat was crushed. Blood splattered Decimus' face. With a quick drag of his forearm, he wiped it from his eyes, and returned to the fray.

The battle raged on, and many Gauls were slain. Though the fighting was hard, Decimus felt something amiss. It was too easy. As he paused to think for a moment, pair of Gauls assaulted him with swings from their swords. Decimus countered with his shield, and the two iron weapons stuck deep into the wooden shield. He gritted his teeth and tried to force them back with all of his strength, but the two tall barbarians were starting to pull their heavy swords loose.

There was a scream, and Decimus felt his burden suddenly halved. He shoved once more, and broke away from the Gauls. He looked and saw one of the attackers trembling, blood spilling from his mouth. His eyes went down and saw the point of a rusty gladius jutting from his chest. The sword was immediately withdrawn, leaving a gaping wound, and the gladius was then stabbed deep into the remaining barbarian. "Figured you would appreciate that, Decimus!"

Marcus Quintus, a soldier who had been with Decimus since the beginning of his term, grinned, his weapon and body splattered with the blood of barbarians. "Couldn't have you die on such a foolish battlefield. Carthage maybe, but not Gaul!" He laughed and raised his weapons once more. "Now come, back to our bloody business!"

It was then that it hit him. As Decimus looked at Quintus, he saw the forests beyond him. He saw the Gallic cavalry waiting in the shadows. "My God… Reform the line! Reform the line!" He cried out, screaming to his fellow soldiers.

Quintus turned to him, "What are you talking about?"

"It's a trap!"

As the thunder crackled overhead, the horses of Gaul charged from their forest ambush; hundreds, possibly a thousand Gallic horsemen, emerging in full sprint, only a few hundred meters from the Roman troops. Cornelius had led them into a trap.

The chaos was too great, the hastati too far committed to reform. The centurion heard the cries to reform, but could not draw his men back and brace them.

Decimus scrambled as the horses approached, only a few seconds away now. He dug his shield into the dirt, braced himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a one handed axe lying on the ground. He immediately grabbed the weapon, and pulled it in. Quintus shielded himself, looked to his friend, and laughed. "See you on the other side, Decimus!"

The Gallic cavalry struck like a tidal wave. Decimus swung out with his axe, and felt the blade connect with the front leg of a barbarian horse. The animal let out a cry, and collapsed, the limb severed completely. The rider was thrown, and trampled by the charge. Other horses soon piled upon the crippled mount, nearly burying Decimus under the corpses.

He forced his way out, and found the battlefield in anarchy. The entire Roman army was engaged with the Gallic cavalry now, and the barbarian reserves had charged. He frantically searched for Quintus, but could not find him. Knowing that the worst must be true, he resolved that he would follow his friend… but not without spilling the blood of as many barbarians as he could.

Pulling a spear free of an impaled Roman, Decimus brought it back, and then threw it at a Gaul as he raised his axe to slay a downed soldier. The javelin stuck deep into the chest of the Gaul, and he fell to the ground. Decimus reached for his shield, only to have it snap when he pulled it out of the mud, having already been crushed by the cavalry charge.

Fair enough, he reasoned, the young soldier reached for the axe he used to cleave the charging Gallic horse's leg. He charged into the fray, his gladius in his right hand, the axe in his left, and started to assault any Gaul who still moved. The axe cut down barbarian after barbarian, the gladius stabbing over and over again.

Decimus heard the cry of a horse, and barely moved out of the way in time to avoid being speared by the rider. He brought his axe crashed down upon the spear that jabbed at him, and splintered the wooden shaft.

As he prepared to finish off the rider with his gladius, Decimus felt his legs give out as something struck him in the ribs. He screamed in pain, looking back to see a Gaul's axe stuck into his armor. He thanked the gods that his armor hadn't broken, and swung his left arm backwards with a wide arc, cleaving the head of the barbarian who almost killed him completely free from his neck. As the decapitated body collapsed, a thick jet of crimson shot out and splattered onto Decimus.

He panted heavily, and continued his random attacks. He caught the attention of another Roman, a princeps, fighting for his life. The Roman nodded, and the two battled towards each other, and soon put their backs to one another to protect the other.

"And so this is how the mighty sons of Mars will fall, eh, friend?" The princeps spoke.

"What of the others?" Decimus replied.

"The ambush cut through the lines with ease. You are one of the few hastati still alive. A few packets of princeps are fighting still along with the triarii at the rear. Our cavalry has either routed or been cut down."

Decimus gritted his teeth as he stabbed into a Gaul, "The general?"

"Either dead or running like a coward."

Decimus spat, "If he isn't dead already, he will be when I run him through myself!"

The princeps laughed, "Then we had best survive this day, friend! To Sextus Valerius and his warrior comrade!"

"To Gaius Decimus and to surviving long enough to avenge the dead!"

The two men continued to fight, giving themselves just enough room to breathe before what seemed like ten more Gauls would appear in the gap. Decimus' axe was lost, and his gladius seemed ready to finally give way.

He lifted it and struck against the long sword of a barbarian. Decimus' gladius broke upon the impact, and both the Gaul and Decimus recoiled backwards. Reacting instantly, Decimus reached for his pugio, and stabbed the dagger deep into the Gaul's throat.

Another man attacked him before he could draw out the knife, and it was lost when the dead Gaul fell. The new attacker was using just a stick, but the club continued to pummel him over and over. Decimus pulled off his helmet, and swung it with all his might at the Gaul's skull. The helm connected with the man's temple, and the barbarian was killed instantly.

Gaius Decimus smiled with bloodlust, covered in the splattered crimson of both enemies and friends, clenching onto his helmet, his only remaining weapon. "It looks as if today is truly the day we die, Sextus Valerius."

"Indeed, Gaius Decimus."

A horseman charged, and swung his club, hitting Decimus in the back of the head. He fell forward onto the bloody dirt, and consciousness left him.

A splash of cold water woke Gaius Decimus. He shook out his head, and spat out the dirty liquid. His eyes slowly opened, and he found himself looking into the eyes of a red haired barbarian with a long mane and scraggy beard.

"Good day, Roman! It is good to see that some of your kind is hearty!"

Decimus was still in a daze, barely hearing the mangled Latin from the Gaul. "What… where…"

"Questions later!"

Decimus felt a fist like a brick connect with his jaw moments before he lost consciousness again.

Once more, he was awoken with a splash of cold water. This time, there was no Gaul standing directly in front of him. His jaw still ached. Decimus opened his eyes slowly, and tried to move. His hands were bound, and he was tied to a wooden post. His armor had been stripped away, and he stood only in his tunic and sandals.

"You are now property of the warlord Cadwaladur," a Gaul spoke as he marched in front of Decimus. Decimus looked around and saw several others similarly restrained to wooden stakes. "Your old master is servile to me."

Decimus saw what appeared to be Amulius Cornelius on his knees next to man speaking, who he assumed to be Cadwaladur. The general had been beaten savagely, his eyes swollen nearly shut, and his lip split. The Gallic chieftain was a tall man, with long black hair and a thick beard. He carried a large axe in his hand.

"See the one who lead you! See the one who fled at my might! But none can escape Cadwaladur. See what power I command!" Cadwaladur stood behind Cornelius, and lifted up his axe. He brought the bladed weapon down and struck Amulius Cornelius, severing his head from his neck. The decapitated body slumped forward, and the dead patrician's head rolled to Decimus' feet. "As easily as I killed your best, so may I kill you! Do not defy me, and you will be treated justly. Defy me, and I will make your end so terrifying that even your ancestors will feel your agony!"

Decimus felt his bonds being loosened, and soon the prisoners were led off from Cornelius' execution site. Their guards took them outside of whatever village they were and brought them to a small quarry nearby a tiny stream. "Mine iron," was the command, and some rusted equipment was tossed onto the ground.

Decimus picked up a tool, only to feel a pat upon the back, "Looks like we need to find you another battlefield, Decimus." He looked up to see Marcus Quintus, smiling grimly. "It is good to see you alive."

"It is good to see you alive as well, Quintus. I thought you were dead."

"And I you. But when they brought your near lifeless body into the village, I was rather relieved. Admittedly, not as relieved as I would've been if you showed up with another legion behind you, but at least I won't be lonely in slavery."

"Didn't you know? I let myself be captured just so you would have some companionship."

Quintus laughed, "Always such a good friend, Decimus."

"And a mighty warrior!" A booming voice came from behind them. Sextus Valerius, with a fresh scar across the right side of his face, approached them, and put his hands upon each of the young men. "Decimus slew many a barbarian that day!"

Quintus nodded, "You do your family honor. Pity you won't be able to tell them that you turned out all right after all, Decimus."

Gaius Decimus smiled only a bit, his face barely moving. "I will go home, Quintus. We all are going to go home, and very soon. You have my word."

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and the prisoners were hardened. They mined and farmed, worked with the smiths, and learned much from the Gauls. The men agreed to be agreeable until the time was right, knowing that any strength gained would be thwarted if they acted too early. An older veteran, a centurion of triarii, became their leader, and it was he who was responsible for organizing them. His name was Cassius Numerius Falco.

It was the second week of the fourth month of slavery when the prisoners were called to war.

Cadwaladur stood in front of them once more, his face painted, and his battle axe in hand. He paced in front of the nearly a hundred prisoners, his breath like smoke in the cold Gallic winter. At his back, the warband of his tribe, likewise dressed for battle. "You were once soldiers, slaves. And now you are being called back to battle."

Decimus stood wearing the same beaten tunic he had worn for what seemed to be as long as he could remember. His hair had grown wild, no longer the clean cut he maintained as a member of the army. His beard he tried to keep shaved, but a permanent shadow remained upon his face.

Falco was at his side. The Roman veteran was much taller than Decimus, and the harsh conditions of Gallic slavery had seemingly made the man even broader than he was in the army. Across the bridge of his nose was a deep scar, a constant reminder of Falco's violent existence. He grunted as Cadwaladur continued.

"German marauders approach from the north. My brother Gorteyrn's village has been burnt and his family taken. He will be killed two dawns from now unless I submit my own people to the Germans. None of this is acceptable!" Cadwaladur roared and stomped upon the ground.

"The German camp will be taken, the bandits slaughtered, and my family restored to me!" The Gaul waved his hand over the Roman prisoners. "You want to prove your worth to me? Then you shall fight at my side! You shall see what it is to serve under a true leader, not the woman you called your general! Prepare yourselves, for we march within the hour!"

The Gauls behind Cadwaladur began to cheer and let out war cries, soon singing songs of victory as the women approached the slaves carrying weapons. As Decimus was given a round wooden shield and a spear made in a similar fashion to the Greeks, he looked at Falco, raising an eyebrow. This seemed to be the perfect time to revolt. The Gauls were actually giving the prisoners weaponry. Certainly they could be overcome with the element of surprise.

"No," was the simple response, a sharp glare from Falco accompanying his single word. Falco lifted up a large broadsword, and slung it over his shoulder, quickly accompanying it by putting two small one handed axes in his belt. "It is not time."

Decimus nodded, and spoke no more of the matter. He took a short sword, and a curved dagger for himself, then prepared for the journey.

It rained the entire first day of the march. Several thousand Gallic warriors accompanied the hundred Roman prisoners, and Decimus understood why Falco had been reluctant to revolt.

For his part, Falco kept the Romans marching, walking from the front of the column to the back, talking up the men. The Gallic cavalry who rode alongside the prisoners to keep watch over them seemed to drift away when Falco would approach. It was clear that respect for Cassius Numerius Falco extended even to the barbarians.

Decimus marched with Valerius and Quintus, the three forming a rather tight camaraderie as the months in slavery went on. The two young men and the veteran shared a hut in the Gallic village, and labored in the same work group.

"It rains too much in Gaul," Quintus muttered.

"It could be worse," Decimus replied.

"Right," Valerius continued. "Much worse."

"How is that?" Quintus said.

"I could be at home with my wife right now," Valerius spoke. "The Gauls are far easier company than she."

Quintus nodded, "Then I agree. It could be worse."

Falco approached them, and put his hand upon Valerius' shoulder, "Sextus, I am organizing the men for the upcoming battle into small groups of ten each. You will command group six. Choose ten to accompany you."

Valerius nodded, "Decimus and Quintus shall be the first I select - -"

"Quintus you may have. Decimus will be in my unit," Falco spoke.

"Understood, sir."

"Gaius," Falco now turned to Decimus, "Move to the front of the column to join my men."

Decimus complied and left his friends, jogging to the front, "Sir."

"Valerius," Falco said, "I will not let Cadwaladur use Romans foolishly. Listen to my orders, and follow them without hesitation." Cassius Falco now left the two companions, and went to another commander of his small army, preparing him for the upcoming battle.

The rain stopped by nightfall. Decimus spent over an hour trying to ring out his blanket, then gave up and decided to simply sleep on the ground itself. He had barely drifted off when he was awoken. Cassius Falco crouched near him, whispering to his ear. "Wake, Gaius Decimus, and come with me."

Decimus reached for his weapons, thinking that this was the beginning of the revolt, but Falco waved him off. "No, boy. Follow, move with silence."

He followed the centurion into the woods, and was led to an area where several of the prisoners were gathered. He recognized them as the nine other commanders of Falco's small units, and the men of Falco's own personal squadron.

"Tiberius," Falco spoke in a hushed whisper, "tell them."

Tiberius, who Decimus recognized as a scout from the legion, now began in a gravely voice, "The Germans know of Cadwaladur's march. They have camped three miles to the northeast of us with at least three thousand men."

"That foolish barbarian only brought a thousand with him," one of the unit commanders said.

Tiberius nodded, "We are vastly outnumbered. The Germans have far greater archers than the Gauls, but Cadwaladur has stronger cavalry."

"He does have powerful horsemen," another said, "as we have seen."

Falco shook his head, "We cannot count on the German general to be as foolish as Cornelius."

"Then what do you propose, Falco?" It was Valerius this time.

"I have befriended the Gaul who acts as our commander, Brycham. Through Brycham, I have gained audience with Cadwaladur before, and I shall again. I will convince him that the prisoners should be positioned in reserve, letting the true Gauls have the honor of fighting the Germans.

"If the outcome of the battle goes against our Gallic captors, I will order a retreat back into the woods. We shall feign a rout, and escape. You commanders will be responsible for getting your men twenty miles to the southwest of here. According to Tiberius, who has been through this region before, there is a large Gallic village there, friendly to Rome. We shall regroup, acquire supplies, and begin the march home."

"And what if we should win the battle?" A soldier asked.

"Then it is far easier, Calventius," Falco said, "We shall gain Cadwaladur's favor, and earn our freedom. It is the custom of this tribe, according to Brycham and Tiberius here, that those slaves who prove themselves as worthy as Gauls are to be freed."

The men began to speak amongst themselves, truly believing that liberty, through escape or through honor in battle, would soon be theirs. "Now go to your blankets and sleep. Rest well, and may the eagle watch over us."

They stood up now to leave, but Falco stopped the men of his own unit. "Wait, I have some words for you."

Decimus and the others remained, listening to the centurion.

"I have chosen you for your skill and your valor. Tomorrow, if we must escape, the most dangerous task is ours," Falco crouched low and his voice was hushed to a whisper. "Cadwaladur has the standard. I will not leave without it. Say what you want about the Senate or the leaders of Rome, but I swore an oath to the gods that I would honor Roma herself. I will not leave her standard in the clutches of barbarians. I will not disgrace Jupiter by abandoning his eagle.

"If we must escape, you will go with me to the village. We shall take the standard, and bring it to the rendezvous. The standard must be saved, is that understood?"

In unison the men responded in affirmation.

"Now rest. Tomorrow will be a bloody day."

The Gauls and Germans did battle at midmorning. They skirmished for over an hour, Cadwaladur not wanting to bring his warbands within the range of the German archers. The German warlord had shown himself the more restrained of the two generals, and the superior strategist. He forced Cadwaladur to fight on low, broken ground, where his cavalry would find difficulty in charging, and the Germans lined up on the east, forcing the Gauls to look into the sun. The forests were to the backs of the Gauls, providing the Roman prisoners with an easy escape should the situation dictate.

The Romans were at the rear left, near Cadwaldur's cavalry unit, closest to the forest, just as Falco had promised. His meeting with the warlord had been a success.

Gallic and Germanic infantry now engaged each other at the center, where the Gauls were losing ground significantly to the heavy troops of the Germans. The archers kept up a steady harassment of those Gauls who had not yet engaged, and even the Romans were watching the skies and steadying their shields.

It was clear that Cadwaladur was perturbed. "Damn these accursed Germans! Do they think that sheer numbers will win them this battle? Each of my soldiers is worth a hundred of them! Gah!" He cursed in his foreign tongue, damning the German marauders by gods unknown to Rome.

A messenger now rode up to meet Cadwaladur, "The scouts have spotted at least four hundred heavy infantry marching through the forests at the rear. The Germans have encircled us, lord!"

"Damn!" Cadwaladur cursed, and swung his fist at the messenger, striking him across the face and knocking him off his horse. "I will not allow myself to be disgraced by these animals!"

Brycham approached Cadwaladur, with Falco sitting behind him on his horse, "My lord, the prisoner wishes to speak with you!"

"I have no time to speak to slaves, Brycham!"

"My lord," Falco called out, "I know that the Germans encircle us. My men can defeat them, I guarantee it."

"Just as you defeated me, I am sure, slave!"

"My men are strong. They were led poorly. Under your guidance, they are guaranteed victory."

Cadwaladur now paused. The Roman's flattery seemed to affect his disposition. "Fine. Brycham, lead your slaves against the marauders at the rear." He now kicked his horse, "Cavalry, advance! We charge the attackers on my command!"

Brycham and Falco now rode back to the prisoners, and Falco hopped off. "Romans, prepare yourselves! We have been surrounded by Germans, and Cadwaladur calls upon us to fight off the attackers. We are outnumbered four to one by heavy infantry." The centurion now let out a hearty laugh and pulled his broadsword off his shoulder, taking his shield in his other hand. "May the gods have mercy on the Germans with odds as poor as that!"

The Romans let out a cheer, and began to chant, beating their weapons upon their shields. Falco immediately started to reorganize the Romans into fighting groups based upon their weaponry. At the front, he stationed those armed with spears, with swordsmen on the flanks, and javelin throwers at the rear. "Spearmen, phalanx formation!"

Decimus locked with the men next to him, and raised his spear at an angle. Falco continued to bark out orders, "Engage them at their center, and hold the line! Swordsmen, stagger yourselves behind the spearmen, and when the Germans have committed themselves, charge and cut them down! Velites, launch your missiles as soon as the Germans move to engage the phalanx!"

The German heavy infantry now began to charge out of the woods, screaming and chanting to heathen gods, raising their weapons.

"Now to arms! To arms! To the glory of Jupiter above, to vengeance for brothers fallen, and to freedom for brothers on earth!" Falco cried out, taking his position in the line of swordsmen.

Decimus marched four from the left of the phalanx, in the front line. Their unit was only four deep, not the eight as Greeks march. As the Germans closed, he lowered his spear, and began to chant with the men next to him, marching in unison, advancing to the barbarian horde.

The javelins were thrown. The long haired Germans continued to charge, held in some type of berserker fury. "Halt!" Acilius, commander of the phalanx, called out. "Stand fast! Steel yourselves!"

Decimus lowered his spear, and dug in, gritting his teeth. Only a few feet away now, Gaius Decimus let out a battle cry, and the men around him joined in. The German swordsmen broke like water upon rock on the Roman phalanx.

Decimus stabbed forward with his spear, and drove the weapon through the face of a charging barbarian. The man's corpse collapsed against Decimus shield, and with a loud grunt, he forced the dead man off, jabbing his spear forward again, stabbing into another German, and skewering his chest.

A barbarian threw himself at the phalanx, swinging his sword. The men caught him upon their spears, running him through with four different weapons. As he slid down on their shafts, he continued to slash at the Romans. His blade struck the man to Decimus' left, splitting his skull. Gore splattered onto Decimus' face, and he quickly tried to wipe at it with his shoulder. The Roman's mutilated body fell to the ground, and caused a break in the solid phalanx line.

The Germans collapsed in on the break, trying to cause the formation to crumble. Another Roman forced his way to the front, stabbing with his spear to drive back the Germans. Decimus swung his left arm, attacking with his shield, and attempting to hold the line until the leak could be dammed. The edge of the wooden shield connected with the bridge of a German's nose. His face collapsed underneath the attack, and was killed instantly.

Finally the hole was filled. The German swordsmen were attacking en masse now, and what seemed like all four hundred were piling on top of the phalanx, trying to flank the formation and break through on the sides.

"Charge!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Decimus saw Cassius Numerius Falco charging at the German attackers, swinging his massive broadsword with two hands. The blade came crashing down upon the neck of a German warrior, and cut the man in half. Falco then raised his giant weapon up into the air and screamed with the rage of Mars himself. The Romans joining the charge added their war cries to Falco's, and the carnage began.

The Roman swords spilt the blood of barbarians with reckless abandon. The dirt was stained crimson that day as the prisoners unleashed four months of hatred and resentment.

The phalanx continued to push towards the German rear, but clearly Fortune did not hold good will for the spearmen that day. A Germanic warrior, standing near seven feet tall, threw himself and his sword at the shield wall. Acilius stabbed at him with his spear, and the tip of his weapon caught the warrior in the chest. Again and again Acilius struck, but the beast would not fall. Finally starting to weaken, blood streaming out of his mouth and from open wounds all over his body, the German raised his broadsword up and drove it forward and down, stabbing deep into Acilius, sinking the sword into his chest. He cried out, and coughed blood. The blow caused Acilius' strength to leave him, and he fell, wounded but still living.

The phalanx was almost broken there, as without the direction of the former triarii commander, the men, mostly ex-hastati, were lost. As the spearmen started to waver, the formation nearly broken, Gaius Decimus started to bark out orders.

"To the left, damn it! Surround Acilius and force back the Germans! All front lines expand out into a circle! Move, now!" The others listened to Decimus' sudden commands, and soon formed a protective circle around their fallen leader. "Do we have a surgeon!"

One of the men replied yes, and Decimus immediately commanded, "Tend to Acilius now! Rear line, start to branch out, we need to get him out of the fray!" The surgeon went to Acilius, and tore at his tunic, trying to make a bandage for the wound. As soon as he put the cloth over the bleeding gash, he tied it down, and started to drag Acilius towards the rear. The phalanx moved with the surgeon, protecting him from the onslaught of Germanic barbarians.

As the spearmen were about to leave the battle, the Gallic trumpet sounded. Decimus watched as Cadwaladur's cavalry now charged. The barbarian horsemen ran down the remaining of the German assault band. As the German infantry started to rout, Cadwaladur's cavalry turned and began to charge towards the front of the battle, the warlord leading the attack, "Come now! To the front! To the front! Rout them all!"

The phalanx had to break formation as Cadwaladur's horses rode through them. The Gallic warlord waved his arms at the Romans, "To the front!"

Falco now approached, spattered in crimson and gore, his tunic torn, "Follow Cadwaladur! Form up into your original units, split into the ten, and fight with honor!"

Decimus now left the phalanx and followed after Falco. When he saw the front, it was a near disaster. The Germans had almost completely encircled the Gallic infantry, leaving them no escape. It would turn into a slaughter soon. Cadwaladur's cavalry could turn the tide of the battle, as the German infantry was fully committed to annihilating the Gauls, leaving themselves vulnerable to the horsemen, but Decimus was troubled by the fact that the Germanic cavalry, and most likely, the marauder chief, had yet to engage, and was waiting on the fringe of the battle.

"Throw yourselves into the fighting just after Cadwaladur's horses, cut down those they trample, and push towards the Gauls in the center!" Falco ordered as his unit formed up near him, running alongside the centurion.

The Gallic cavalry broke through the rear of the German lines with ease, bringing death and destruction as they rode. Falco's men, Decimus included, poured into the gap, and expanded outwards, slashing and stabbing as they moved forward.

Soon, the cavalry had driven straight through the Germans to the trapped Gauls, and the Roman prisoners followed afterwards, remaining in the fighting with the German infantry now almost in a full rout from the blitzkrieg attack.

It was then that the Germanic cavalry charged. The marauder chieftain rode with them, Decimus could now see, as the leader of the German horsemen wore a barbarian crown upon his head. Cadwaladur, seeing the man who vexed him so, immediately broke off his charge, and went right into a cavalry versus cavalry battle.

"That fool!" Falco cried out as he killed another German. "Damn him! Men, to Gallic warlord! To him now!"

Decimus followed after Falco as he ran to the cavalry battle, "Falco, we'll be killed, we have no horses!"

"Damn it, I know that! But if that fool dies we shall not have our freedom!"

"But the escape, the plan!" Decimus said.

"We are too far in boy! There is no escape now! Cadwaladur's folly has allowed the Germans to circle us again! We either are victorious or die on this barbarous land!"

"Then there is much killing to do," Decimus cried, "for will not die on this forsaken plain!"

"Amen, my brother! Let Mars be pleased by us this bloody day!" Falco replied as the two men threw themselves into the battle of horses, swinging their weapons at the animals' legs.

Decimus drove his spear deep into the torso of a German horse, and the beast was slain. The rider fell forward, and Decimus crushed the man's skull with his shield.

Ahead of them, Cadwaladur spotted his foe. He charged at the Germanic chieftain, raising his mighty battle axe. "I shall drink from your skull tonight, Germanic dog, for I am Cadwaladur of Isara, conqueror of men, and all who defy me shall die at my hands!"

The German hefted his large sword, and rode at Cadwaladur. "I am Hrodgar the Bandit King! Fall before me, mouse of Isara, as your brother did before you!"

Hrodgar and Cadwaladur charged each other, their weapons ready, the two chieftains intent on slaying the other. Cadwaladur swung his axe, and Hrodgar heaved his sword. The broadsword struck the axe's handle, and the giant weapon was splintered. Cadwaladur was thrown from his horse, and knocked to the ground.

Decimus raised his shield as a horseman slashed down at him. The round wooden shield caught the blow, and nearly broke under the attack. Both the German and Decimus reeled, and for a moment, Decimus flashed back to the battle between Romans and Gauls. Grinning widely, Decimus regained his composure, and thrust forward his pike. The German was speared in the chest, and fell from his horse.

Cadwaladur scrambled to his feet, dazed from the fall. He cursed loudly again, and went for the sword at his belt. As soon as he drew it, it was immediately used to block an attack from Hrodgar. The Gallic warlord let out a cry of rage and held his ground against the tall German. Again and again, Hrodgar swung his sword, and it crashed upon Cadwaladur's.

Gaius Decimus now saw the savage attack upon the Gaul. Remembering Falco's words, Decimus was stirred to action. "I will not let that German take away my only chance at going home!" Decimus cried out, and immediately grabbed onto the horse that had just lost its ride. He pulled himself up, and kicked the animal, "Move, beast and I swear I shall give you the best fodder you have ever eaten if we both live through this!"

Hrodgar attacked and Cadwaladur parried, but the Gallic warlord's strength was fading. Hrodgar kicked at Cadwaladur, and his blow landed upon the Gaul's knee. The bone gave way, and Cadwaladur collapsed, cursing profanely and yelling in pain.

Decimus closed now as Hrodgar raised his sword with both hands, preparing to deliver the killing blow to Cadwaladur. With a cry of rage, Decimus brought his spear up, and threw it with all his might at the German chieftain.

The spear drove deep into Hrodgar's chest, the weapon impaling the German through the heart. His eyes went wide and he coughed thick crimson. His legs give way, and fell to his knees, his life quickly leaving him.

Decimus leapt from the horse, drawing his sword and dropping his shield. With a roar, Gaius Decimus approached the dying Hrodgar. Decimus stripped him of his barbarian's crown, and grabbed his head by his long dark hair. Decimus raised his sword up into the air, "Die, marauder." He brought his blade down, and took Hrodgar the Bandit King's head.

The bloody decapitated corpse remained motionless on its knees, still impaled with the spear, and shooting thick, dark jets of crimson from its neck.

Decimus went to his horse now, still holding the German's head. Grabbing onto the animal, he kicked it again, and began to ride, raising Hrodgar's severed head high into the air. "This is your king, barbarians! Your king is slain! His skull is my prize! Fall before me and despair for I shall rain hellfire down upon each and every man who resists me! Death to the man who opposes Gaius Decimus, son of Mars!"

The Germans saw this Roman slave riding a German horse, brandishing the decapitated head of their leader, and fear ran through them. The Gauls, seeing this same terrible sight, were motivated by it, and their confidence was restored. They fought fiercer than ever before, and soon began to rout the Germanic warriors.

The Gauls and their Roman prisoners rallied, and pushed back the Germans, driving them into the forests, slaughtering many as they fled.

That night, as the victors liberated the city of their kinsmen, the sky was lit with thunder and lightning, the gods themselves giving glory to the bloody victory.

And so Gaius Decimus became the greatest of the Romans in the land of the barbarians. Nearly a year had passed since the defeat of Cornelius' legion. Winter approached once more, and the Romans were no nearer to freedom. The plan of Falco to secure liberty through valor had failed. Cadwaladur, shamed by Decimus' timely intervention, was now a cripple, forced to walk with a stick. He loathed the Romans, Decimus in particular, and treated them harshly. They were worked to the bone, even in the bitter cold when the Gauls themselves returned to their homes.

Cassius Numerius Falco, the veteran centurion who once led the prisoners, now fell out of favor with them. Following the battle with the bandits, Gaius Decimus became a hero to the men, and overtime, quietly usurped the old warrior. He did not take this well.

As the snows ceased to fall, but before the ground had melted, Cadwaladur continued his hunt for bandits and brigands. On one bitter day, before the winter broke, he led the army, the Romans included, off to battle, hoping to annihilate the small band of raiders encamped ten miles outside the village. Decimus was left behind with the women and children.

II

Gaius Decimus Exsul

Verica, the youngest daughter of the warlord Gallic Cadwaladur, dipped her clothes into the river just outside of town. The morning air was frigid, but for the first time in months, the water had thawed, so the young woman took advantage of Gaia's mercy.

She knelt upon the rocks, her long red hair flowing down her back. As she washed the laundry, she likewise washed her face in the icy river. The crisp blue water woke her completely, and she shivered at the refreshing sensation. When her eyes opened, and she saw the horizon, the girl immediately washed her face again, not believing what she had seen.

Horsemen rode up, but not the same who had left a day earlier. These men rode upon black steeds, and dressed in foreign clothes. She squinted as the horsemen approached the village. One of the women ran out to meet the head of the riders. She did not have a chance to scream before the man drew his sword and ran her through.

As her blood stained the snow, Verica found herself unable to move. The wooden buildings of the village soon started to burn as the raiders threw torches into doorways. Women and children ran from the onslaught, but the black riders chased them, hunting them down, showing no clemency to the defenseless.

Verica's knees quivered, and she felt weak. A rider brought his horse to a halt, and looked out towards the river. She saw a smile appear on his dirty face, and he dismounted from his beast. Raising his sword, he started to run at her, screaming foreign curses and threats, laughing hysterically.

Cadwaladur's daughter turned and started to run. She fell down into the stream, the water nearly freezing her to death as she scrambled to her feet, trying to escape into the forest. She ran and ran, looking back to see the man from the north gaining on her rapidly. Her breath became short and frantic, trying to remember back to the days when she played games in the woods with her brother and sisters, hiding from each other.

Verica's legs gave out under her as she tripped over a stone. She hit the snow covered earth and the air was forced out of her. She clawed at the ground trying to get back to her feet, when she was suddenly tackled by her pursuer.

The bandit forced her onto her back, and ripped at her clothing, tearing it, and exposing her body to the winter air. He grunted, loosening his own pants, using his massive arms to pin her to the ground, "Quiet, girl, and be thankful you can taste Alaric the Mighty!"

Verica screamed and cried as he began to violate her, kicking at the man, praying to her gods to be saved. The bandit struck her across the face, and her head fell backwards, her will to fight gone. She sobbed, wishing her father were here.

"Go home, dog."

Suddenly, the bandit stood up, and Verica was freed for a moment. Alaric grabbed his sword, his pants still around his ankles. "Who the hell do you think you are, boy! I will spill your belly for your disrespect!"

The man was crouched on top of a fallen tree trunk. A cloak of wolf's skin was wrapped around his body, his dark hair unkempt and long, his chin and jaw bearded. The man's gray eyes cut through anything they looked upon, and the bandit stepped backwards, almost tripping over his pants. "Have some dignity before death himself comes for you."

The bandit pulled his pants up, barely getting them past his waist. Alaric grabbed the hand of his sword with both hands, and charged at the man who wore the skin of a wolf. He swung the large broadsword high, hoping to cut his head in one swipe.

The man sprung forward like an animal, dodging the attack, and struck. He punched Alaric, and felt his nose collapse underneath his fist. Another strike, and teeth were knocked free. Alaric staggered backwards, dropping the sword, and the wolf sprung at his prey. He grabbed onto Alaric's jaw, stood behind him, and snapped the bandit's neck. Alaric's legs gave out beneath him, and his eyes went blank, cold and dead. The wolf dropped the corpse, letting the dead man fall to the snow.

Gaius Decimus extended his hand to Verica, and pulled her to her feet. The young girl with the red hair was still sobbing. Decimus took off his wolf's skin cloak, and wrapped her in it.

"They… they're burning the village…" Verica cried, wiping at her eyes.

Decimus nodded slowly, and stooped down to pick up Alaric's sword. He drew his finger across the sharp edge of the blade, testing it. "Return when the screaming stops."

Just as quickly as he had appeared, Decimus vanished back into the forest.

Tudrus never saw the sword that cut his head from his neck. Oza could not scream before his throat was cut and a blade driven through his heart. Gundahar at least tried to draw his weapon before he was killed.

Left and right, the bandits from the north fell to Decimus' blade. There were still twenty men left for killing, and he planned to make sure each was struck down. The village that had been his home for the past year burned, homes that his labor helped build reduced to ashes. Women and children he had come to know and care about murdered like animals.

No quarter was given, no mercy shown. Decimus stalked behind a man as he lifted a giant battle axe to strike down one of the townswomen. His arms flew up around the bandit's neck, and with a sharp tug, his spine snapped free from his skull. Decimus took the battle axe in his free hand, his sword in the other, and continued his path of vengeance through the village.

A horseman rode by, his spear aimed low to strike at anyone in his path. Decimus turned, the rider pulling his horse to a stop, and then now charging at the Roman, his weapon leveled. Decimus grinned sadistically, the blood of other fallen enemies spattered over his face, and heaved his battleaxe up. With all of his strength, he threw the weapon, and it spun end upon end, the blade striking deep into the raider's skull, splitting it in two.

The horse kept sprinting, and Decimus grabbed onto the beast's mane, pulling himself up onto the animal, and kicking the dead rider off. Decimus charged, sword in hand, and rode at one of the bandits who was wielding a torch. Not recognizing that the rider was not one of his partners, he did not try to defend himself.

Decimus took the man's torch, and continued the hunt. He charged into a pack of bandits, dropping a few simply by the horse's charge. He swung both his sword and his torch at men, burning them and cutting the bandits down.

As his sword stabbed straight through the heart of one of the attackers, it was clear that his slaughter had gained the attention of the raiders' leader. He was a giant of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall, with a wild beard, and long black hair. His eyes burned with barbaric ferocity, and Decimus matched him.

"Ha!" the reaver bellowed, and tightened his grip around the axe. A child, no more than ten years old, lay dead at his feet, nearly carved in half by the barbarian's axe. "So you are the one who stays with the women and children, eh, coward? And you think you accomplish something by killing a few of my men? Bah! Mere weaklings. You did me a favor, boy!"

"I am Gaius Decimus Filius Martis, the Son of Mars, and the man who will split your skull today, bandit." He tossed the torch at the ground before the barbarian's leader. Then he stepped forward and raised his sword above his head, grasping the handle with both hands.

The barbarian's eyes went wide. "You? You are the one who killed Hrodgar?" He then began to laugh, "You are a funny one, child. You barely have hair on your chin and yet you expect me to believe you killed Hrodgar?"

Decimus snarled, "I don't kill dogs. I put them down."

The raider stomped his foot upon the frozen ground, "I would have let you live, weakling, for this is a blood feud between my people, _Hrodgar's people,_ and Cadwaladur's pathetic little tribe. You are not involved."

Decimus stepped forward, his sword ready, "Blood feud? I overestimated you then. What cowards fight a blood feud against women and children?" Decimus threw his sword, end over end at the axe-wielding German.

In a frantic attempt to defend himself, the German raider swung his axe and knocked the weapon down. As soon as he looked up again, Decimus was on him.

One swing of his left fist, and the bandit fell, his temple crushed in. Decimus did not cease his attack, tackling the dead man, and continued to pummel him, fist smacking upon flesh sounding not like a contest between two men but more a butcher tenderizing meat.

The surviving bandits watched in awe, frozen, not knowing what to do as Decimus crushed in the face of their leader. He had killed Hrodgar, and now he had taken another of their war chiefs. Blood splattered onto Decimus, his face dripping with thick crimson. Soon he was doing nothing but beating wet pieces of flesh and bone into the frozen earth. When his fists were covered more with dirt than gore, Decimus stopped himself, bloodlust still consuming him. He breathed heavily, eyes aflame.

The Germans watched but did nothing.

"Come at me, you dogs! Come at me, curs! I swear I shall murder every one of you! I shall send every last one of you to Hell! Fight me, cowards!"

Suddenly, the war trumpet sounded, and the thunder of horses could be heard. The bandits began to run, "Hurry! Away! Cadwaladur returns!"

Decimus did not move as the horses approached and the men of Cadalwadur's war band leapt from their steeds in horror, running to put out the flames, to tend to the wounded, to morn the dead.

Cadwaladur himself dismounted from his beast, and looked at Decimus. The Gallic king was silent, his eyes steel. He turned away from the gore covered man, and went to aid in saving what could be saved, his crippled leg dragging behind him.

Falco rode with Cadwaladur, and now approached Decimus. He looked at his old comrade, and shook his head. Falco kicked the horse, and hurried to help.

His breath shallow, the blood matted into his hair, and the cold chilling him to the bone, Decimus remained motionless. His heart was empty, and he felt nothing now.

Off in the distance, wrapped in a cloak made of wolf's skin, Verica, Cadwaladur's daughter, the young woman rescued by Decimus, stood staring at her savior. She trembled at the sight of the Roman, and looked away.

The back of Cadwaladur's hand struck Decimus' face with enough force to draw blood. The hand came back around and struck him once more, the echo of the slap causing several of the on-lookers to shudder. "What did you think you were doing!"

Decimus stood in silence, his face grim and stern.

The Gallic warlord punched the Roman in the gut, and Gaius Decimus let out a gasp as his wind was taken from him. Cadwaladur now lifted his cane and struck Decimus in the back, casting him into the dirt. "You let those damned bandits run rampant over my town! Killing my people! Burning my property! Do you know how many are dead? Do you know how many men's wives were lost! How many children! How many innocent children who will never reach their prime because of your recklessness and disobedience!"

Decimus climbed up to his feet. "I acted as I saw fit. There was no time to find you. If I were not there, how many more would be dead? I cut down twenty of those bandits. Twenty who would've killed another twenty or more! I am the only reason this village still stands!"

Cadwaladur paced in front of him, breathing heavy, his rage boiling, ready to explode. "As sentinel, you were to guard the town, and sound the alarm in case of attack! You were to ride to me and let me deal with this!"

"You were ten miles out. Even with the fastest wretched horse you left me, it still would've taken an hour toget to you, and even longer to bring every one back. It is not my fault you fell for the raiders' tricks and left only me to defend _your_ property. You should be kissing my feet for once again, I am the one who has saved you, barbarian!"

For a cripple, Cadwaladur was still quick with his cane. The wooden stick moved like lightning, and Decimus collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Freezing water splashed in his face, and Decimus was awoken. His head hurt, and his shoulders were on fire. He tried to walk, only to find that his feet were barely touching the ground. He attempted to move his arms, but failed. They were tied together above his head, and he hung by his wrists. Slowly, his vision focused, and he could see again. It was night, and it was cold. He still was without his wolf's skin cloak, and he sorely wished he had it right now.

Cassius Numerius Falco stood before him, his arms crossing his chest. The old centurion stared at Decimus, a smirk upon his face. "You have a mouth on you, boy."

"Falco…" Talking still hurt. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, and tasted a bit of blood. Apparently Cadwaladur had some fun after he was knocked unconscious. "Cut me down already."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Falco. Cut me down. This is the last straw. We're leaving tonight. Gather the men, gather the weapons, I will not wait any longer. He puts me in shackles and hangs me when I save his city! He's gone mad. We'll all be dead soon if we don't leave now."

Falco slowly paced in front of Decimus, then approached him, leaning in close. "Get one thing straight, _boy_, you will not give me orders. You will speak to me with respect or I swear to God I will spill your belly right now." He slapped Decimus with the back of his hand. "Now you listen. For once, keep your mouth quiet. Understand?"

"Good," Falco smiled when no response was given. "You think you run this place now? You think that stupid stunt with the German's head earned you respect here? You are a fool. Cadwaladur hates you with all the he is. You took away his glory, and you took away his dignity by saving him. He is a cripple now because of you. If he died, at least he would have gone with honor."

"Then let me kill him now and let him have his honorable death!" Decimus snarled.

"I have spent months convincing him not to outright execute you because of the reaction it would have with the slaves. I have worked too hard, and gained too much favor with these animals to let a child like you ruin it all! You have been a thorn in my side since that very day! You think that the men will accept you as a leader?" He laughed now, a quiet, sinister cackle. "Never. These are Falco's men. And you will not take that away from me." He paused now, shaking his head. "You should thank me. I saved your life for another day."

Falco now got close enough that Decimus could feel his hot breath, "Look around, for this is the last time you will ever see this village. At dawn, you'll be brought out to the middle of the wastelands and if you're lucky, they'll kill you out of pity. If not, you'll starve or freeze to death." He stepped back, and turned away. "Gods have mercy on you. You had potential as a soldier. Very sad it had to turn out this way. Maybe in the next life you'll learn not to toy with me, dog."

"You bastard… you oath-breaking cur! You sell out the life of your own countryman! Have you no honor! I swear upon every god of the heavens, upon Jupiter and Apollo and bloody Mars himself that I will kill you, Falco! I swear that I will kill you! I swear a thousand oaths that I will send you to Hell!"

Decimus thrashed at that which bound him. He screamed out for Quintus and Sextus. He called for a hundred other men, called them by name. He begged for them, calling on them in the names of parents, wives, brothers, sisters, and children. For hours he pleaded. No one came to aid him.

Finally, in the bitter cold of the frozen winter night, Decimus surrendered. He hung his head, and longed for home; for the grasp of his father's hand, for the taste of his mother's cooking, for the laughter of his brother, for the warmth of Julia's embrace. Gaius Decimus sobbed in the darkness.

At some hour of the night, Decimus was stirred again. It was a soft sound, gentle steps cracking twigs. "Who's there?" Silence. He called out again, "Who's there?" Once more he went unanswered. He sighed, "Cowards. Just stare at the dead man. May the gods damn you worse than they have damned me."

"I… I just wanted to return this…"

Decimus looked up and saw the daughter of Cadwaladur holding his wolf's skin cloak. Verica's icy blue eyes pierced through the darkness, and her long red hair was not dimmed by the shadows. She approached him, hesitating as she got close to him. "Thank you for saving me."

He laughed, and shook his head, "A lot of good it did me. Save the chieftain's daughter, be sent off to die. This is what I had in mind when I set out from home…"

Verica wrapped the cloak around her savior, and clasped it around his neck. She embraced the battered man, and put her lips upon his. "Thank you." She kissed him softly, barely touching him. The red haired girl then leaned closer, and kissed him deeply, fully. She held him for what seemed like eternity, and Decimus gave in completely. He pressed back against her, and prayed dawn would never come.

"Gaius Decimus, for crimes of treason against the tribe, treason against the Senate and People of Rome, for disobedience to orders, and for negligence to duty, Cadwaladur, the greatest warrior and chieftain in all of Gaul, does hereby sentence you to exile into the wastelands. This judgment has been passed both by the wisdom of Cadwaladur, and the council of Roman warriors unanimously. May the gods have mercy on your soul." Cassius Numerius Falco, standing in full battle dress of the Gallic tribe, finished reading the proclamation, and gestured to the men who held Decimus bound.

Cadwaladur stood next to the Roman centurion, and nodded. He leaned upon his cane, and tapped it on the ground. "Take him away." He turned his head, and all others present at the sentencing did the same, following the tribe's ritual.

Verica was on the fringes of the crowd. She did not look away. As Decimus was put onto the horse, and the sack lowered over his face, his eyes met hers. He saw her tears begin to fall, and then there was only darkness.

They rode for hours. His hands and his feet were bound, the cloth bag tied down tight over his head. Decimus lost track of time, constantly fading in and out of consciousness. So many blows to the head over the past few days were taking their toll, and the headaches kept getting worse.

The horses stopped, and he was pulled from the back of the animal, cast onto the ground. Snow and ice kicked up around Decimus, and the frozen crystals fell back onto his battered body. He was pulled up, and his bonds were cut. The bag was pulled off his head, and his eyes burned in the sunlight.

"Walk two hundred paces forward. Do not stop until you have made the final step. After that, you are on your own."

Decimus looked back at the two men who escorted him to the wastelands of the dead forest. He recognized them as two of Cadwaladur's best warriors, Amminos and Casticos. Amminos were betrothed to one of the warlord's daughters, and Casticos was Cadwaladur's cousin on his mother's side. Clearly, the Gallic chief had something more than exile in mind.

He rubbed at his head, feeling the many knots. His brain was still spinning, and his balance was weak. Damn it, how can he be expected to save himself if he can barely concentrate? Decimus cursed himself and the gods.

Casticos went for something stored upon his horse. He withdrew a longbow and a quiver. Decimus took a deep breath, and further cursed his situation. He slowly started to walk forward, closing his eyes and trying hard to think.

The paces added, and his animalistic senses heard an arrow being strung, a bow being pulled taut. Time is running out.

Flashes of memory returned. His home, his family… faded images that he could barely recall anymore. Visions of battle filled his head: blood and gore splattered upon him, the ache in his arm as swords clashed, the rage and adrenaline in the heat of the moment. His comrades… the traitors. He shook his head out. Not now, he can't think about that now… Cadwaladur. Falco. Quintus. Sextus. Verica. The farm at home. The peaceful life he led as a child… turned into a near animal in the forests of Gaul… a hunter. The wolf.

Now.

The thwip of an arrow shot sent Decimus diving to the right. He hit the frozen earth on his shoulder, rolling with it, and springing back to his feet. He darted behind a dead, barren tree, just instants before a second bolt cut through the place his head had been.

He was breathing fast now. His senses were on fire. Everything around him was burning with life and energy. _I am the wolf._

Decimus sprinted at the assassins. His hand swooped down at the ground, snatching up a stone. Another arrow shot past him, impaling itself into a tree trunk. Every instinct, every skill that had been honed and trained over the last year came to full bloom. He was no longer the quiet boy on a small farm. He was no longer the inexperienced soldier blindly following a foolish general. He was war incarnate, he was blind, unrelenting fury. Gods have mercy on those who betrayed him.

Casticos' eyes went wide as Decimus darted out from behind a tree, charging right at him now. He quickly tried to ready another arrow, and let it loose without aiming. Decimus leapt into the air, and threw his stone. The missile caught him in the shoulder, but he was unfazed. The stone struck Casticos' in the face, blood exploding from behind the rock, hanging in the air for a split second as Casticos fell to the ground.

Amminos went for his dagger, but Decimus was on him too quickly. He knocked the blade from his hand, and threw a stiff elbow at the Gaul's head. Amminos dropped low, and tried to tackle Decimus to the ground. Decimus sprawled back, and posted Amminos' head. The barbarian let out a cry as Decimus began to punch him in the kidneys, over and over again. He tried to break free as Decimus drove his knee into his face, again and again. Decimus felt wetness upon his knee, but would not cease his assault.

Suddenly, Decimus screamed out in pain, as a hand pulled out the arrow embedded in his shoulder. Casticos was on his feet again, and trying to stab Decimus with the recycled missile.

He dropped the still twitching Amminos to the ground, and dodged Casticos' attacks. He leapt to the left, moving out of the way of the makeshift weapon, only to be caught on the opposite side by Casticos' fist. The punch slammed into his temple, and Decimus was dropped to the ground.

Casticos fell upon him, and stabbed the arrow deep into Decimus' thigh. The Roman cried out in pain, then cried again as Casticos kicked him in the rib cage. As the Gallic assassin raised his boot again, Decimus grabbed him by the heel, and pushed him to the ground.

Instantly forcing himself to his feet, Decimus grabbed tight onto Casticos ankle, and then kicked at Casticos' kneecap as hard as he possibly could. The leg snapped with a sickening crack, followed by a scream of utter agony.

Decimus immediately fell forward onto Casticos, making sure to bend his crippled leg in directions that the gods never intended it to bed. Casticos scrambled underneath him, clawing at the ground. His fingers grasped a rock, and his swung the stone with as much force as he could muster, striking Decimus in the head.

Decimus was dazed, and he waved slightly, giving Casticos just enough time to grab Amminos dropped dagger. Decimus came to his senses just as Casticos slashed at his face. The blade cut from his cheek up to his forehead, barely missing his eye. Blood dripped out of the wound, little beads of crimson spilling onto Casticos.

He slashed again. Decimus grabbed the man's wrist, and pushed his fingers into his pressure point. He squeezed harder and harder until there was a pop, and the hand went limp.

Decimus raised his fist, and drove it down at Casticos' throat. He felt his windpipe give way, and the Gallic assassin gasped for air.

Decimus collapsed and fell off of Casticos, the Roman's consciousness quickly fading. Casticos clutched at his throat, trying to breathe, horrific sounds of a man trying to pull in air through a crushed windpipe filling the dead forest. He reached up at the heavens, as if to beg for mercy.

Casticos violently convulsed, and then went limp, his arms falling onto the frozen earth. His eyes were wide, glazed over with the horror of death upon them.

Gaius Decimus exerted every last bit of his willpower to get up to his feet. The arrow wound in his shoulder was bleeding badly, his leg was screaming out in agony, and the dagger scar across his face burned. His head howled and throbbed, ringing as if every bell in the world was within his skull.

His eyes could not focus, but he knew he needed to get away. He stumbled and staggered through the black forest, falling onto the snow and ice time and time again. He kept forcing himself up. If he stayed still, he knew he would die. Decimus needed to reach shelter. He could not survive out here for long.

He walked and walked for what seemed like forever, the concussion begging him to just surrender. He kept going out of spite; spite for those who betrayed him, for those who condemned him.

And off in the distance, there it was. A rock formation rising out of the forest… a small cave. He laughed at his fortune, thinking that for once, the goddess had decided to favor him. He approached the cave, the darkness welcoming him.

Decimus got two steps in before the ground gave out under him, and he plummeted into the abyss.

III

Invictus

"Arise, Gaius Decimus."

His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet, hearing a strange, ghostly voice call out his name. His instincts took over, and he dropped into a battle stance, waiting to defend himself from an attacker.

There was nothing.

The cavern he had fallen into was completely black, and he could not see his own hands in front of him. His head still rang, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He looked up, trying to see from where he fell. Apparently there had been some type of cave-in following his plummet, as he could not even see the hole from which he came.

"Filius meus vigila."

The voice again. Decimus breath quickened. Awaken my son? Was he hallucinating? Had the many blows to the head finally driven him mad? Gods above, was he dead? Was this his hell for taking so many lives? To be imprisoned in an abyss for all eternity?

"You still breathe."

He swallowed hard. Something was not right. Had the voice just read his mind?

"Follow."

Suddenly, a line of torches ignited, revealing that a long tunnel extended from the cavern. He was suspicious, and his gut told him to stay where he was, to not move. But yet another part of him knew that he had to explore the cavern… he could not merely surrender after all of this.

Decimus followed the hallway, and slowly he noticed that the tunnel was changing. The dirt and rock of the cave was being replaced by marble and worked stone. There was some type of structure underneath the earth. His pace quickened, he must know what is going on.

The torches ceased their light up ahead, and he slowed for a moment. He looked back, and saw the light of the fire. The abyss in front of him beckoned, but the boy in him still begged him to stop, to return to the cavern, to not go forward.

The wolf ordered him to go on.

He obeyed the beast.

He came to the end of the tunnel, and stepped into the darkness. Suddenly, the entire area lit up with the same mysterious fire, and he was taken aback. He was in a tremendous room, a cavern that extended farther than he could fathom. No… not a cavern. This was a temple.

The columns rose up beyond his sight, he could not see the tops. Marble adorned the walls, with elaborate carvings depicting scenes of battle and conflict that he did not recognize. There was a path before him, a stone walkway in the middle of a giant lake. But this water was not like any he had seen before. It seemed to change colors… from a bright fiery orange, like the river of a volcano, to a pure wine blue like the sea, to the deepest of crimson… blood. Every time the light hit it, he saw something else.

Decimus looked up the walkway, and something caught his eye. There was a wolf in the distance, standing on the middle of the bridge. The animal's eyes burned with an unnatural fire, glowing with a fury beyond his comprehension. The wolf turned away, and continued down the path.

Decimus followed the wolf.

It never seemed to end. He followed the animal for what could have been minutes, hours, days. Time was useless here. Decimus did not care; he knew that he must follow the wolf wherever it went.

The path finally came to an end, and a stairway was before him, leading up to a massive temple. The wolf was gone now, and the silence once again got to him. It was far too quiet.

"Embrace your instincts. Come to me."

Decimus started to climb the stairs when he heard the screaming. A deafening sound pierced his entire essence, and he almost collapsed at the noise. His body trembled, and his legs were weak.

He almost did not see the demonic fire.

Decimus leapt out of the way of a flaming sword as it crashed onto the marble steps where he stood. He looked up to see a monster, a skeletal corpse, adorned in a black armor, an iron helm upon its skull. The demon's flesh was decayed, and its eyes were empty and the color of pitch. It wielded a sword engulfed in an unnatural fire, a sword that was trying desperately to eviscerate Decimus.

"Win," the voice commanded.

The demon monster slashed again and again, forcing Decimus to continue dodging just to preserve his own life. He could not look directly at the beast, and he still could not bear its screams and wails.

The blade stabbed forward, and nearly impaled Decimus. The flame was close enough to singe him, and his skin felt as if it were burning.

Realizing that he had no other option, that once again his life was facing another threat, this time from a force beyond his understanding, Decimus let out a roar. It was an animalistic, terrifying war cry, and its rage drowned out the demon's howl.

Decimus leapt at the demon, and drove his fist into the monster's face. With a sickening pop, he felt the decrepit flesh break, and the corpse's skull crack. Thick, black blood oozed out, and it burned Decimus' skin. He swung again, and continued to pummel the monster.

The demon kicked Decimus back, and lunged at him. Decimus dodged the sword arm, and went for the skeletal beast's other arm. He grabbed its forearm, and then brought his knee up into the limb. He crushed the bone, and the arm snapped off the demon, dropping lifelessly to the steps. Instantaneously, Decimus brought his elbow back up, swinging for the monster's temple.

The clang of Decimus' elbow upon the iron helm shocked him, and waves of pain ran up and down his arm. He stepped backwards, stunned for an instant. He then charged forward again, trying to tear the monster's helm from its head. The two battled, the demon trying to get in a position to use its fiery sword against Decimus. The man finally ripped the iron helmet from the demon's head, and he almost vomited from what he saw.

The skeletal monster snarled at Decimus as he stepped back, shocked by the visceral horror of the beast. Decayed flesh hung from its skull, the ruins of a man long fallen still clinging to an undead existence.

Decimus regained his composure and roared, swinging his powerful elbow again at the monster's temple. His arm crashed through the skull, and the entire left side caved in.

He took a deep breath as the monster staggered, and fell to the ground. Decimus put his hands upon his knees, trying to piece together the horrid things that had transpired.

Gaius Decimus looked up just in time to see that the demon was not dead. He saw the flaming blade raised to the air. He saw the monster slash at his throat. Decimus screamed only for a moment when the burning blade severed his head from his body.

Then there was only silence in the great cavern.

"Filius meus vigila."

The pain woke Decimus. He was on his knees, his hands clutched at his throat, squeezing as hard as he could. The demon had decapitated him, had cut his head off. And yet he still drew breath. But it was no dream. The demon still stood in front of him, raising its sword up for another attack. His neck screamed in agony, and Decimus believed that if he let go, his head really would fall off. The damned beast must not have made a complete cut. Accursed animal, at least give a quick death!

The demon stabbed again, and Decimus screamed as the blade drove into his chest, the point emerging from his back. The unholy flames burned him from the inside, and the sharp blade pierced through his very existence.

Again and again the undead monster ran him through, and Decimus convulsed with each stab, the blade driving deeper and deeper into him, the pain horrible and unbearable. He could not scream anymore, his voice was drained. The agony was terrible.

As the demon lifted its flaming blade, defiance filled Decimus. He did not care if it was hopeless, he did not care if death was only instants away, he would take this accursed monster with him!

Decimus forced himself to his feet, charged the beast. The demon steadied itself and pointed his sword forward. Decimus impaled himself upon the blade, and felt it drive straight through his heart. The two fell to the ground, and slowly, Decimus sank onto the weapon, driving the burning sword in to the hilt. He swung his fists again and again, consumed by a vicious rage. He crushed the monster's skull, black, acidic blood splattering everywhere, burning Decimus' skin.

He did not cease his assault until the demon stopped screaming its soul chilling wail. Decimus allowed himself a moment's rest, and watched as the monster's corpse dissolved in its black armor.

It was at this time that Decimus realized he was not dead.

He looked around the vast cavern, confused and uncertain as to what was going on. The wounds the monster gave him certainly came with real pain, but there was no blood. He felt his throat, and there was a scar in his flesh that burned his fingers. He looked at his chest, and black wounds were upon his body, the same as on his neck.

"Come to me."

Decimus stood up now, and steeled himself. "I will not play this vile game any more! What is going on!"

"Be victorious and you shall have your answers. Lose your spirit, surrender to the pain, and you shall become part of the undead legion…"

"Legion…?"

The hall was now lit. He could see the massive temple ahead more clearly, the unnatural torches illuminating everything now. But that was not what most concerned Decimus.

It was the thousands of monsters, adorned in the same demonic armor, and wielding unholy weaponry, wailing the laments of the devil that caught his eye. A giant demon lifted up a horn, and blew upon it, the earsplitting sound cutting through to Decimus' soul. The undead legion howled, screaming a war cry that nothing on this earth could match.

Then there was silence.

Gaius Decimus picked up the slain demon's sword, its unnatural fire extinguished. It was nothing more than a simple iron blade now. Untold thousands, armed with the weapons of the devil himself against an old sword and a two fists? Fair enough. Decimus tightened his grip upon the blade and smiled. He started to walk towards the legion, then began to run, charging the monsters. He raised his sword and roared with ferocity and intensity that more than overwhelmed the combined war cries of the demons. He threw himself into their front line, and the killing began.

The first demon's sword had long been broken. He had gone through spears, blades, shields, clubs, and daggers. His bones had been crushed and reformed by the same unholy power that allowed him to survive the cut that should have taken his head. Wounds should have taken his arms, his legs, his heart and his organs. Decimus' entire body was covered in the same dark black scars, and the pain almost brought him to his knees. "Almost," he snarled as he crushed the skulls of two monsters against each other.

He grabbed the giant battle axe of a fallen enemy, and swung the massive weapon like a madman, cleaving demons into pieces. The beasts' black blood splattered over him, burning as it touched his skin, the sting of an evil poison.

Decimus had been fighting for days now. He hungered, he was weak, but his spirit would not leave him. A soul of pure spite, pure hatred and rage drove him on. He would not surrender to these demons, these beasts. They dare to challenge him? He would kill every last one of them, send them to meet the sullen god in Hell.

The axe swung down and impaled itself in the skull of a demon. Acidic blood shot out from the split bone, and the monster convulsed violently. Its spasms broke the axe blade from the handle, to which Decimus responded by swinging the wooden pole like a staff.

The demons overwhelmed him again, and he was cast upon the ground. The damned soldiers piled on top of him, driving their weapons into his body again and again. He would not allow them the honor of a scream as a dagger stabbed into his eye. He would not surrender as a spear was put through his throat. A sword went into his heart, an axe through his arm. He lay upon the unending stairway, unable to move. His strength had finally left him.

Darkness overcame his eyes, and his body became heavy.

At was at this point that he realized that death was simply not an option.

His hands clawed up and out, fingers digging into the eye sockets of a demon piled on top of him. He ripped at the monster's eyes, gouging them out, and used its skull as leverage to pull himself up. Decimus tore a gladius from the hands of one demon, slashing out with the blade, and killing any who dare stood in his way.

He burned with an unnatural fire, all consuming, giving him power that few men could even comprehend. It was the fury of the wolf… it was his spirit, his soul, fueling him and giving him unending strength.

They burned before him.

He slaughtered them all. They kept coming, and each fell before his own unholy flame. They stone staircase was soaked in demons' blood. Skeleton corpses littered the steps, dissolving into black ash.

Gaius Decimus' body was covered in scars, the pitch black, unnatural marks of weapons that assaulted not the flesh, but the soul. He marched towards the top of the steps. The entrance to the temple came into view. He had fought the endless legions of hell to reach these doors, for what goal he knew not. What did it matter? It was survival. It was the burning desire to live for a moment more. Decimus would just not die. It was not an option.

"Did you think you were done yet?" The voice was like a screeching, like that of an animal's wail, and a man's death knell. "I shall send you into the abyss."

Decimus looked up to see the undead corpse of Hrodgar, the bandit king. His eyes were sunken, his flesh decayed. A sickly, murderous smile was upon his face. "I seek vengeance, Roman dog. The king of the underworld has allowed me to join this merciless legion… But where they failed to stop you, I shall cut out your eyes."

Decimus continued to walk towards the German, who was brandishing a massive broad sword in each hand. Decimus clenched his fists tightly. "It seems you've become more eloquent in death, thief."

"A thief! A thief! I am a king! I am the marauder who slew thousands! Countless trembled at the mention of my name!" Hrodgar started to swing his two broad swords, back and forth making a storm of blue steel. "There are no cheap tactics here, no confusion or battle to distract me… I will avenge myself, and tonight, drink from your skull!"

Decimus did not stop. Hrodgar swung his sword, and Decimus ducked. He swung the other, and the Roman side stepped it. Decimus revealed a small dagger held in his belt, and put the blade to Hrodgar's neck. The jagged knife, stolen from a long defeated monster, cut through Hrodgar's dead flesh, and slit his throat.

The marauder fell to his knees, his eyes already rolled back into his head. With no regard for the fallen bandit, killed a second time by the wolf, Decimus walked to the entrance of the temple, and threw open the doors.

Hrodgar, the once feared bandit king, died once more, his soul now extinguished, the darkness enveloping him as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

The two giant stone doors opened with a load roar. The inner sanctum was dark, with only a small flame burning in front of an altar at the center of the chamber.

Decimus stepped in, approaching the altar. "I have questions I demand answered!"

Silence.

Decimus cried out again, "Damn you! I have killed your cursed legions, I have slaughtered them to the last god damned corpse, and now I am done playing your twisted games! Show yourself, you vile creature, or I swear to the gods above that I will kill you just the same as your demons!"

Suddenly, the stone doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom. Decimus clenched his fists. No simple parlor tricks would scare him, not anymore. He had fought through the pits of hell itself to reach this damn temple, and if he would not be thrown from his course.

The fire at the altar swelled to a tremendous inferno, the rush of heat hitting Decimus, singeing his skin. He clenched his fists, his will unbreakable. "Enough of this!" He screamed. "Enough! Show yourself!"

"You dare to question me, boy?"

Decimus spun around to face the same voice that led him through the unholy gauntlet. He saw a figure clothed in a crimson cloak, the hood pulled over his head. Despite the intense fire, shadows hid the figure's face. "I am no boy."

"You think you are a man now? You think that because you have fought some battles, killed some men, that you are a man now? You are a child in my eyes. You know nothing of manhood, of power."

Decimus lunged at the robed figure, his fists clenched, "Dog! I will – "

The figure lifted up his hand, and Decimus was halted in midair by a terrible force. He was thrown backwards and slid along the stone floor until he collided with the altar. "Dog? Gaius Decimus, I am a god!" The figure cast back his hood.

The flame at the altar exploded once more, revealing the entire inner chamber. There were countless statues, depicting the same warrior battling monsters… serpentine giants, of an origin that Decimus could not place… yet at the same time, recognized as if he had seen them himself… as if he had fought them using his own hands. A slow, terrible realization came over Decimus. The warrior in the sculptures… it was the man who stood before him.

"I am Mars, Gaius Decimus. Welcome to my home."

Decimus felt his confidence waver a bit.

Mars lifted his hand, and Decimus was pulled up into the air, hovering a foot above the ground. The god of war squeezed his hand into a fist, and suddenly, Decimus was choking. "You are strong, boy, in this land where the soul is a man's source of strength… But you are no god."

The grip was released, and Decimus fell. He gasped for air, and then turned his eyes upon Mars. He let out a roar and charged at the divinity. Mars lifted his hand up to counter, and just an inch before Decimus' fist would have connected with Mars' palm, an invisible force stayed Decimus hand. The echo of the impact was like thunder. Decimus swung again and again, Mars continuing to parry with his mysterious powers.

Decimus came in with another punch, an uppercut at Mars' chin. The god stepped back and dodged, the smoothly moved out of the way as another fist came at his head. The god of war flowed like water, dodging with ease. As if to mock Decimus, Mars put his hands behind his back, a smug smile upon his face.

The Roman kicked at Mars' knee, but the god hopped up over the feeble assault. Decimus charged, leveling a haymaker at Mars. He dodged, and Decimus' fist crashed into the temple wall, cracking the stone. Without hesitation, Decimus threw the same elbow back at Mars' head.

"You are good, Gaius Decimus," Mars stated as he continued to dodge the attacks. A fist came closer, nearly grazing him, "Excellent!"

The praise was only infuriating Decimus more. God or not, after all of this, after an eternity battling hordes of demons, _this_ was his reward? A god insulting him? "Shut up, you damned beast!" Decimus roared with an unnatural fury, and swung with all of his might at Mars' jaw.

The god did not have time to dodge this attack, and was forced to raise his protective barrier. Decimus' fist thundered against the god's awesome power, but Decimus was relentless. He continued to attack, sparks starting to flash upon impact. The sound was deafening, and the very foundations of Mars' subterranean temple shuddered. His fist continued to drive at the god, slowly pushing through the invisible protector.

Mars' concentration was strained, and for an instant, he wavered. Decimus did not hesitate. A left hook caught Mars on the jaw, barely brushing against him.

The god staggered back, and Decimus halted, "Fear me, god, for I am Gaius Decimus, the wolf."

Mars put his hand to his chin, rubbing the spot where Decimus struck him. "Well done, Decimus. I knew that I had not chosen poorly."

Decimus fell to the ground, exhausted and strained beyond belief. He sat on the temple floor, gasping for air, his strength finally emptied. "What do you want from me, god?"

Mars stood tall now, adjusting his armor. He was dressed in the full battle dress of a Roman soldier, his crimson cloak hanging upon his shoulders. "You have unfinished business, do you not?"

"There are many who need to die at my hands still, god," Decimus spat.

"There are two in particular… no… There is only one that you truly desire the death of…"

"Falco."

Mars nodded, "Yes… your betrayer. Intriguing."

"Intriguing? How is that 'intriguing'?"

"I will offer you the chance to avenge yourself."

Decimus stood up now, emboldened once more, "I do not need your assistance, god of war."

"Oh… but how many times have you called upon me in battle? How many times have you felt my spirit empowering you to do what is necessary to survive? But no, no you do not need my assistance. It is I who need you now, Gaius Decimus," Mars said. "You have an important role to play in the things that are to come… As does Cassius Numerius Falco."

"He will play no role!" Decimus roared, "As soon as I am free from this infernal place, I shall cut him down."

"Indeed you would. But you have not heard me, Decimus. Your destiny does not merely lie in murdering a treacherous centurion. No, son of Rome. You will become my instrument, and when I call upon you, you will fulfill the will of the gods. You will wander the earth until you are needed… You will become a legend among men… and… And you will have your vengeance in time."

"If I refuse?" Decimus said.

Mars laughed, and shook his head, "You will not refuse. I know your heart. You desire a life of adventure – of glory! You live for the thrill of battle, the honor of the hunt! You are indeed the wolf, Gaius Decimus. You will not refuse me, because I know that despite your annoying insolence, you do respect the gods. You know your destiny lies with me. Take up your sword and become the avenger!"

"I bow to no one, man or god. I will not be a pawn."

Mars suddenly drew his gladius from its scabbard, and put the tip of the blade to Decimus' throat. The wolf did not flinch. Mars nodded, and turned the sword around, extending the handle to the mortal. "That is why you were chosen."

Decimus wrapped his fingers around the handle of the sword, and took it from Mars' hands.

"Decimus!"

Gaius Decimus looked around, and found himself face down on the frozen earth of the woods of Gaul. His ears rang, his head pounding with an agonizing dull pain. He put his fingers to his eye, feeling the scar Casticos' knife had cut across his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and realized that he was not in Mars' temple. He was lying on the floor of a shallow cave in the dead frozen forest.

"Decimus! You are alive!"

Decimus snapped out of his reverie at the sound of his name, called out by a familiar voice. Where was he? What had happened to the temple? Where was the god? He did not have time to consider his questions before two figures came into view.

"Quintus? Sextus?"

Marcus Quintus and Sextus Valerius, riding upon two brown horses, approached the cave quickly. They hopped down from their mounts, and ran to Decimus. "Ha! I knew we'd find you!" Quintus said as he put his hands upon Decimus' shoulders and then pulled him in for an embrace.

"You are resilient indeed, Decimus," the veteran Sextus Valerius stated, nodding his head.

"What… what's going on?" Decimus questioned, his voice hoarse.

"Casticos and Amminos must have gotten in a few shots to your head, eh, comrade?" Quintus said.

"When the two Gauls did not return from your 'exile,' Quintus and I slipped out under cover of darkness to come find you. At the very least, to give you a decent burial," Sextus said.

"We found their bodies about three days ago, and followed your trail here," Quintus continued.

"Three days…? How long… how long have I been gone?"

"You really must have been hit too many times! It's been over a month since you were taken out of the village!" Quintus said.

Decimus finally looked over himself. His beard was ragged, unshaven stubble, his hair long and filthy, matted to his head. He was wrapped in his wolf's skin cloak still, his tunic torn and battered. He noted that he was starving, and felt as if he had not eaten anything substantial in days.

Had he hallucinated it all? Was it nightmares brought upon by the concussions? Decimus felt for the scars left by the demon's blades, looking for the pitch black marks of the unholy weapons. His skin was unmarked, the only scars the ones he had before entering the subterranean hell.

Hallucinations… yes. That was it. He had not fought legions of the undead, and then challenged Mars himself. A terrible dream brought about by head trauma and lack of food; a metaphor for his struggles to survive in the wilderness, his mind's method of coping with the trials.

"Are you okay, Decimus?" Quintus said as he pulled his childhood friend up to his feet. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"No… No Quintus, I am fine," Decimus replied.

"Good, then let us finally begin the journey home… away from all of this."

As Decimus stood up, the sleeves of his tunic were pulled back. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a new scar on the inside of his left forearm. Decimus pulled back the sleeve to get a better look. It was fresh, blood still present in the wounds. "Ultor sum…" Decimus muttered, reading the mark tattooed into his flesh. "I am the avenger…"

Had Decimus carved that into himself during his delusional madness? He put his fingers to the scar, and felt a rush of power and force that made him cry out. It was the same strength and power that he felt when he fought the demons… when he unleashed every fiber of his being upon Mars.

"Decimus? Something wrong?" Sextus asked.

"No," Decimus shook his head. He mounted one of the horses, and looked over the dead forest, covered in snow. The sun was beginning to set in the west, a red light cast upon the woods. "But Quintus… We are not going home. There are things I must do."

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley.

IV

The Affairs of Other Men

Anaximander of Sparta let out a war cry as he drove his spear deep into the Athenian hoplite, impaling the young man through the chest. "Come, you bastards! Push through them!"

Thick jets of blood shot out of the wound as he pulled his spear free. Anaximander turned his head as the crimson splattered the side of his bronze helmet. He grunted, and raised his shield as members of the enemy phalanx stabbed forward with their spears. The dull clang sent shockwaves up his arm, but a life of merciless discipline continued its influence, and he did not budge under the attack.

The mass of Athenian hoplites broke upon the Spartans like water upon rock. The phalanxes of scarlet cloaked warriors were relentless, more a force of nature than an army of men. The discipline was absolute, the fighting mechanical.

Five thousand Athenians versus five hundred Spartans.

May the gods have mercy upon the Athenians.

"Bring up the right flank! We'll circle around and slaughter them!" Anaximander called to the herald, who immediately raised his horn to give the signal for movement.

The Spartan war chant began as the complex maneuvers started, precision turns and marches encircling the frightened Athenians. The militia officers tried to rally their men, reciting oaths made to Athena and the Olympians, proclaiming the glory of the reborn Athenian Empire.

"Ha!" Anaximander spat as the Athenian line broke, peasants barely large enough to hold a weapon and a shield collapsing in on one another, trying to save their own lives from the unstoppable Spartans. "Surrender already and spare us the effort!"

A pompous Athenian officer was within range of Anaximander's taunts, riding upon his white horse. He raised his sword, and swung it at Anaximander's shield, crashing upon the protective weapon with a dull thud. "Surrender to you dogs! You fools! Our reserves shall swarm you! Our archers shall cut you down with --"

He was cut off by the point of Anaximander's spear. The Spartan stabbed the weapon through the bottom of the Athenian officer's throat, blood gushing out of the Athenian's mouth. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell from his horse.

The animal thrashed and tried to get away, routing into the mass of Athenian soldiers, causing more chaos.

The screams ensued, and Anaximander knew that the battle was won.

It was then that the fire began.

A thousand flaming missiles soared through the air, and struck like lightning upon the Spartan soldiers. Anaximander turned to the horizon… there were thousands of archers, so many that he couldn't even begin to get a good idea of the number of assailants. He spun around, looking for an escape route, but the archers were lined up along both sides of the battlefield.

"Damn!" Anaximander screamed, rage tempering his iron discipline. "What the hell have I done!"

A burning arrow hit the man in front of him, the flaming head setting fire to his scarlet cloak. The Athenians were still scrambling, and not all of the Spartans realized what had happened.

"They're firing on their own men," Anaximander muttered.

"Sir! We need to do something!" One of the younger warriors called out. Before Anaximander could remind him to remember his training, an arrow struck him in the face, killing him instantly.

If they stayed they would be annihilated.

"Herald! Signal the retreat, now! We need to get out of here or we'll be wiped out! We can't fight them at this range - - not like this!"

As the herald blew upon his horn, the thunder of a thousand horses drowned him out. The western gap, where Anaximander planned to lead the retreat, was now filled with heavy cavalry.

Black horses, raising the banner of Macedon.

The Companions charged.

"Now! Now! We need to fall back now!"

The Spartan army abandoned the battle and took flight. The Macedonian cavalry ran down their ranks as if they were mere ants. The site of guaranteed victory was now littered with the corpses of scarlet clad men.

Anaximander led his men from the battlefield, trying to drag as many wounded with him as he could, trails of blood dripping from their near dead bodies.

The glory of Sparta is not what it once was.

Three horses road over the horizon, the sun setting in front of them. The riders were clothed in animal skins and traveling cloaks, looking like common vagabonds from a distance. Their skill in riding revealed them to be otherwise.

"Tell me again, Decimus," Marcus Quintus asked, "why are we roaming Greece when we should be sitting at home enjoying the prime of our lives?"

Sextus Valerius, the second traveler, laughed heartily. The hardened veteran slapped the young Quintus upon the back, "Do you yearn for home so much, Quintus? Where is your sense of adventure?"

"I had pretty girls at home waiting for me, Sextus. Gorgeous girls, with perfect curves, and long dark hair, and beautiful eyes and the desire to bed an up and coming young man such as myself," Quintus said.

"Up and coming you may have been, but you have been gone from your home for quite a long time, a member of a lost legion! I wouldn't be surprised if all of those pretty girls have moved onto another more 'up and coming' man."

Quintus glared at Sextus, "You enjoy ruining my fun, don't you?"

Sextus smiled, "Its how I enjoy myself."

"Quiet, the both of you," Gaius Decimus spoke. He rode a few steps ahead of the few men, surveying the land in front of them. He pulled back the horse and stopped.

"You know, Decimus, you have barely said a thing for the last few days. As a matter of fact, you have been some what off ever since we found you - -"

Decimus cut Quintus off, "Quiet I said." There was a moment's silence, and then he said, "We will spend the night here."

"Here?" Quintus asked.

Decimus rode ahead, over the top of the hill, and started to descend.

Quintus and Sextus followed him, and the lights of a city were revealed. "Oh. There," Quintus noted.

Decimus nodded, and gestured for them to follow, "Welcome to Megara."

Megara was once a powerful city. It lays opposite the island of Salamis, which Megara herself used to count as a possession… until Athens took it. When Athens began its bid for empire, it crippled Megara's economy by cutting off Athenian trade with the city. Megara found herself siding with the Spartans in the great war… but things have changed since those days.

Alexander has come and gone, and with the Macedonian's death, there is no common enemy for the Greeks to hate. The old rivalries have returned, and Megara has suffered for it.

Decimus and his friends rode into town and went to the nearest inn, searching for a meal and lodgings. What they found was a den of drunkenness and loose women, a hive of thieves and fallen soldiers. It reminded them of home.

A lute player sang an ancient poem, about some Ithacan king or another, and Quintus found himself entranced by the vivid lyrics. He sat down in front of the poet, listening intently.

Sextus sat at a wooden table and ordered himself some wine and fish. The waitress sat upon his lap, and whispered something into his ear, while taking the man's hand, and putting it upon her chest. He shoved her away, and then stared blankly at the table. Sextus let out a heavy sigh, and remained silent for the duration of the evening.

These travels had been hardest on him, Decimus thought. During the days in Cadwaladur's bondage, Sextus used to speak of a family: a beautiful if stern and difficult wife, and a young son, only four years old, but already so strong. It is better that they think I am dead and move on, Sextus said, than keep hoping that I will return one day. It was all he spoke of the matter, and would not answer any more questions, only responding with a grunt or a nod.

Quintus and Decimus were young men, expected to return home from the campaign in Gaul to work on their fathers' farms, then marry some girl and raise their own families. But Quintus was too restless to settle down already, and Decimus knew that his destiny lay elsewhere.

Sextus however… Sextus had lost everything, and when he had finally achieved his freedom, he did not return home to the ones he loved…

Decimus had asked his two friends to follow him across the world, leaving behind their homes, their families, to join him on a mission that may have been a hallucination. To be honest, he did not know where he was going, just vague instincts to head to the east. Decimus doubted himself constantly, and had been ready to abandon it all and return home when he saw Megara.

He needed to be in Megara. This was where his destiny had taken him. Mars, if it had truly been Mars and not a figment of Decimus' imagination that is, wanted them there.

One day they would return home, Decimus vowed. One day he would bring Sextus back to his wife and son, and make up for the difficult yoke he now asked his friend to carry.

Decimus ordered some wine and a loaf of bread.

Anaximander drowned his sorrows in the drink. Yesterdays battle was an absolute disaster. He failed his men. Years of training were worthless because he could not execute simple strategy… And the arrival of the Macedonians' Companions? What were Athenians doing consorting with the bastards of Alexander?

Anaximander spat and slammed his cup down onto the wooden table. The scum. The Greeks may have their differences, but they were always united against foreigners. Especially against Macedon.

Did honor and tradition mean nothing to the men of Greece? Even the scarlet cloaked Spartan warriors were not what they once were. A generation ago, Anaximander and his men would have stood their ground and fought the onslaught to the last man.

But a generation ago, Anaximander thought, he would not be little more than a mercenary captain, selling out the services of the Spartan army to the city of Megara.

He drank more of the cheap wine.

"Hey, you! What the hell do you think you're doing!"

Anaximander looked up to see a bulky drunk grabbing a young man by his tunic and pulling him up into the air.

"I wasn't doing anything, friend. Nothing at all. Why don't I buy you a drink?" The young man responded.

The poet who had been singing stopped during the commotion, to look at the confrontation taking place among his audience members.

The entire inn was drawn in by the commotion, and even the jaded members of the Megara militia found themselves watching, waiting for one of their own to beat the life out of this pup.

A gorgeous waitress, her chest damn near spilling out of her clothing, pulled on the intoxicated soldier's arm, pleading with him, "Gyras, please, he didn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah, Gyras, I didn't mean anything by it," the man noted.

"Shut up!" Gyras the drunk backhanded the woman, sending her crashing to the floor, blood trickling out of a busted lip. "Don't talk to me unless I ask you a question, you fat cow!"

The waitress sobbed, muttering how sorry she was, and that it would never happen again.

"Say you're sorry."

"What the hell did you say?" Gyras asked the impudent young man.

"You have one more chance," he replied, still held by the collar of his tunic. "Apologize for hitting her, and promise you will never touch her or speak to her again."

"Or what?"

It was all over in a few seconds.

The young man's arm came up like lightning, and hooked Gyras', breaking his grip on the tunic. The young man's other elbow then came up, and snapped Gyras' forearm in two with a loud, sickening crack.

Gyras screamed for an instant, before the back of the young man's fist came right back at Gyras' face, and dropped him to the ground silently.

The young hero had perhaps three seconds to breathe and contemplate his action before the entire inn exploded.

Two militiamen leapt out from their tables to attack the young man, another grabbed a ceramic jug as a weapon, throwing it at the man's head.

He dodged, and the wine jug hit the wall with a loud crash. He charged at the first two attackers, and hit them with the same brutal efficiency that subdued the drunk they called Gyras: a punch to the sternum of one, a kick to the kneecap of the other. They both fell, not dead, but certainly out of the fight.

The third militiaman had grabbed a stool by now, and broke the wooden object over the man's back, sending him to the ground, grunting with pain.

"Damnit, Sextus, Decimus, a little help?" He moaned.

The one called Sextus rose to his feet slowly, moving like a bear. Two more militiamen jumped into to attack him, but he stopped them cold. His massive arms grabbed the one on the right, and used him like a battering ram to attack the one of the left, then he tossed the man like a rag doll, putting him through a thick wooden table with ease.

The militiamen, despite how drunk they were, and how ineffective they might be in a legitimate battle, now realized they needed to up the ante. Swords were drawn.

It was then that Decimus entered the fray.

Anaximander almost missed his movements as he left where he was sitting. Three men were dropped unconscious before Anaximander could find the one called Decimus again. He broke the arm of a sword wielding man, and then finished him off with a blow to the kidneys.

More and more of the inn patrons joined in on the brawl, against the three outlanders, Sextus, Decimus, and Quintus. The odds were damn near three to one now, and while in most circumstances, Anaximander would've placed his money on the outsiders, the militiamen were armed.

Anaximander stood up, and tightened his fists, "Damn me, all this talk of honor and glory, and I am going to sit back and let this happen?"

The Spartan warrior grabbed a wine jug, and immediately broke it over the head of one of the militiamen. "Come now, little Megarans! Challenge a Spartan!"

The Megaran soldiers froze as they saw Anaximander standing before them, the terrifying red cloak wrapped about him. It was all the time the Spartan needed. A lifetime of discipline and training took over, and the fighting spirit filled him.

The young Quintus and his friends, the bear Sextus, and the one with the scar across his eye, Decimus, joined in and the battle was full heat once more.

The Megarans tried to surround the four, and soon, Anaximander found himself fighting back to back with Decimus, the young wolf with the scar across his eye. "You three are indeed bold ones," Anaximander said.

"Bold isn't the half of it!" Decimus replied.

A few minutes later, the inn was in shambles, and only four men remained standing. Blood dripped from open wounds, and bruises stung and became swollen. Anaximander was breathing hard, but the adrenaline still flowed in his blood.

"That's right…" the one called Quintus said as he gasped for air, "Don't ever mess with us." He then fell onto the ground with a pained groan, running his hands through his shaggy hair.

The tall Sextus folded his arms across his chest, "You said you wouldn't cause trouble this time, Quintus."

Quintus looked up at him, "So I lied… Besides, we won." Quintus then turned around to see the beautiful waitress, the one this brawl had started over, coming to him.

She knelt beside him and clasped his head to her ample chest, "You brave, brave fool! I swear, I shall nurse you back to health! I shall take care of you until you are better than you were before!"

Quintus smirked to his comrades, "Like I said, we won."

"Indeed you did, outlanders," Anaximander said. He turned his eyes to Decimus, who had gone back to finish his loaf of bread. "What of you? You fought fiercer than any man I've seen, and I have seen many a hero."

"I'm no hero," Decimus said quietly. Anaximander could swear that he saw Decimus look at something upon the inside of his forearm. "Not yet, anyways."

Decimus nodded as he swallowed the tore off the last piece of bread, and looked to Anaximander. "I am Gaius Decimus, this is Sextus Valerius, and the troublemaker is Marcus Quintus. We are travelers from the west."

"And I am Anaximander of Sparta, the protector of these people," he gestured to the groaning men lying on the floor of the inn. "Now come, you have already caused enough trouble in Megara. Follow me to my camp, and we shall eat and drink in honor of our great victory!"

"We've been here about three months now," Anaximander said as they entered the camp. "The Athenians began to mobilize a militia as well as hire mercenaries and call up soldiers, stationing them about ten miles outside of Megara."

"That doesn't sound suspicious at all," Quintus sarcastically remarked.

"The kings and the council authorized me to lead my men Megara and ensure that the Athenians would not become hostile."

"You were 'authorized' to come? You were not sent?" Sextus asked.

Anaximander cleared his throat, "Yes. In recent times… the Spartan military operates in a fashion similar to… independent contractors."

"You're mercenaries," Decimus said.

The Spartan was silent for a moment, and then continued walking towards his tent. The three Romans followed him as he pulled open the flap, and stepped inside.

Within the tent was a massive rectangular table, with at least ten places set. "This is the officer's tent. Sit and eat. You are my guests tonight. If you need somewhere to stay, talk to the servants, they'll take care of you." Anaximander then left the three and exited the tent.

Quintus looked at the other two, "Was it something I said?"

Sextus shook his head, while Decimus followed after Anaximander. Quintus decided to take up the Spartan's hospitality, and ordered himself some wine and fish.

Decimus found the Spartan overlooking the Corinthian Road. The camp was located atop a hill that formed the Megara Pass, connecting the major powers of Greece. The sun had long set, and the man was staring up at the stars.

The Spartan's discipline was apparent even as he stood at ease. His posture was perfect. It looked as if motion was simply not an option for the soldier. "It wasn't always like this."

Decimus said nothing.

The wind was cold, howling as it blew across the Pass.

"We were the most fearsome warriors in the world, revered and honored even by our enemies. Our name was legendary," Anaximander turned around. "But now we have become mercenaries. We offer the heritage of our fathers to the highest bidder, getting ourselves involved in battles that are not our own.

"The old men might think Agesilaus to have been a hero, one who revived the traditional ways and ensured Sparta's survival – even surviving Alexander's megalomania – but I can see the truth.

"It all ended with him. He could not protect Sparta, he could not take Persia, and when it all fell apart, when the Corinthians and the Thebans finally grew spines, what did we do? Did we take back what was ours? Did we restore our honor?

"No. We whored ourselves. We fell in love with the legend of the Ten Thousand and whored ourselves to whoever could pay." Anaximander shook his head. "And now, only a few generations later, I am sent to halt the combined might of Athens and Macedon with only five hundred men."

Anaximander looked back out to the horizon, to the stars, "Do you know of the greatness of my people, outsider?"

Decimus shook his head.

"The Persians came from the east and nearly conquered us all. The cities fought as they always have, fighting the enemy while battling each other at the same time… but this war was different. Greece was threatened. Not just Sparta, not just Athens or Corinth. The old enemies fought as brothers. Ha… even the Athenians displayed courage befitting the heroes of Troy.

"The Persians came with a million men. One million men poised to invade Greece. The fools. They should have brought two million. They knew that Sparta was the entry to Greece. We met them at the gates. King Leonidas and three hundred Spartans challenged one million Persians at Thermopylae. And do you know what happened?"

Decimus shook his head.

"They all died. To the last man. Every last Spartan was killed. But gods, they more than made the Persians bleed for it. Twenty thousand of the barbarians fell, and the invincible army was crippled. On the final day at Thermopylae, as the last Spartan fell, the Athenians defeated the Persian navy at Salamis.

"Each Spartan that died bought the Athenians more time to win at Salamis," Anaximander said. He stood taller now, his voice wavering just a little bit, betraying emotion. "That is my legacy. I am the descendant of heroes."

The Spartan then looked to the ground, lowering his voice, "And this is how I repay their sacrifice."

Gaius Decimus said nothing. He only folded his arms across his chest, pulling his wolf's skin cloak tighter around his body.

Anaximander turned around and looked at the Roman, "Fight me, Gaius Decimus. Fight me as hard as you can."

Anaximander cast off his robe, and straightened out his clothing. He pulled back his long, dark hair into a ponytail, and tied it off. The Spartan cracked his knuckles, and dropped into a fighting stance.

"What?" Decimus said, a little startled.

"Fight me."

"I'm not going to fight you, Spartan," Decimus said.

"Then you do not honor me, outlander."

"Honor you? You want me to beat the hell out of you and consider that honor?"

Anaximander nodded, "Yes. It is our way."

Decimus sighed, and ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He nodded, "Okay. Alright." Decimus unclasped the chain that kept his wolf's skin cloak around his neck, and dropped it to the ground. He took a deep breath, and a calming spirit came over him. He closed his eyes.

They say that the calm in the storm is the worst part. Not because the winds are strongest, or the rains are the hardest, but because of the quiet. There is an eerie peace in the heart of the unstoppable fury of the storm, the pure, unbridled rage of nature. The most destructive elements are the most serene in their hearts.

When Decimus opened his eyes again, Anaximander was on the ground, clutching at his side. Decimus' knee was still raised, an instinctual counter to Anaximander's charge. A simple grapple and a throw, and the Spartan was cast onto the dirt.

"Ha, I knew this would be worth it!" Anaximander laughed. He lunged from the ground into a double leg takedown.

Decimus was caught off guard, and brought to the dirt. Anaximander moved quickly, and locked Decimus into a full nelson, a hold that could easily break the Roman's neck.

"A Spartan is trained from age of seven to master the art of wrestling. I can apply a thousand crippling holds and chokes with ease, subduing any attacker. You may have strength and speed, but you do not have skill. I sense a spirit in you like a Spartan warrior, like a hero of old, perhaps Achilles himself," Anaximander tightened the grip, and Decimus coughed, his vision fading.

Decimus tried to curse at the Spartan. Had he not slain entire legions of the undead? Had he not even laid hands upon a god? Once again, Decimus doubted himself.

"Submit, and I will teach you all that I know," Anaximander said quietly.

Submit was a word that did not appeal to Gaius Decimus. Submission was not acceptable after the hell he had been through. At the mere mention of the word, every single scar and mark that the monsters had made burned him. The rage that compelled him through Mars' gauntlet, that had allowed him to strike a god… the rage that made him invincible… filled him.

Decimus' legs gave out.

Anaximander loosened his grip, "Fool, I don't want to break your ne- -"

Decimus sprang back up, his knees bending and then pushing off the ground. He drove his skull back into Anaximander, head butting the Spartan. With his grip already loosened, so that he would not kill Decimus, it was now broken by the sudden attack.

Decimus freed himself, pushed away from Anaximander, and spun around, his fists raised and ready to attack. He lunged at the stunned man, and swung.

Anaximander's hand came up, and caught the fist, stopping it dead. His nose streamed blood, and there was a smile upon his face, "Good." He nodded again and again, "Very good."

Anaximander released Decimus' hand, and walked away from him, "Now come, you have much to learn."

It began two hours before dawn the next day. They ran ten miles.

"From the age of seven, Spartan boys are taken from their homes and begin their training. They are never allowed to rest, never allowed to become soft. Discipline is their essence, fighting their purpose. They are living weapons, yet they are not barbaric," Anaximander said.

Decimus was forced to hold his body in a push-up position for the past two hours. A dagger stood poised at his belly, ready to gut him if he flinched.

Behind Anaximander, fourteen Spartans stood at attention, attired in their full battle dress, arms at hand. "They are perfect. They carry out orders without hesitation, even if it means certain death."

Anaximander then kicked out at Decimus' elbow. Decimus grunted, but held his position, feeling the point of the blade dig into his flesh.

The Spartan leaned down close to Decimus' ear, and whispered, "But the beautiful thing is… to a Spartan warrior, there is no such thing as 'certain death.'"

Anaximander kicked again, this time to knock away the dagger. "Get up, it is time for unit drills."

"You are no general," Anaximander said coldly.

Decimus lay curled in the fetal position on the muddy ground. He was shivering and trembling uncontrollably. He was bleeding from cuts all over his body, a gash on his forehead dripping crimson into his eye. He hurt so badly. It was raining, the water a deep cold that chills the inside of one's body.

He wanted to get up, to prove that he was more than this, that he was the champion of Mars who had slain the unending legions, that he had laid hands upon the god himself.

Nevermore than now, at the mercy of this Spartan mercenary captain, did he doubt himself. Gaius Decimus, the great and grim warrior, always stoic and strong, confident and indomitable… was broken like a child.

"You may have the potential to be great, but you have failed in developing it," Anaximander said. "You may be able to kill a hundred men by yourself, but I can show you how with ten loyal men, you can defeat ten thousand!"

Decimus said nothing.

Anaximander crouched low, "Have you learned nothing in your life, Gaius Decimus? Have the past two years been for naught?"

Decimus heard something different in Anaximander's voice. This was not the voice of the Spartan who had worked him relentlessly for the last month.

"Forget the two years in the legion. Useless time, orchestrated only to bring you closer to your destiny. Your year in Gaul, transforming from a mere farmer's son into the wolf. Your month of war. Your months of travel, wandering to find a place you did not know, guided only by a nagging sense that you would eventually end up where you needed to be? The battles you fought, the challenges you faced, all conquered by the same warrior that could not be killed.

"Yet you are useless to the world if you cannot lead the armies into battle. There are greater things planned for you, but you do not see them!

"Do you know why you were betrayed? Do you know why no one came to your defense? Why only two men out of the hundreds you knew searched for you?

"Because you are not great. You are a cowardly child who has flashes of brilliance. If you expect to transform yourself, to even approach the destiny that the gods have written for you, you must become great!"

There was a flash of lighting, and in the harsh light, Decimus saw Anaximander as another. It was not the Spartan standing over him, but Mars himself.

The thunder cracked, and it was Anaximander again. His voice returned to normal.

"Stand up. If you fail again, I will kill you myself, for you will be of no use to me."

Decimus forced himself up to his feet. He trembled for a moment and Anaximander correctly him by striking him with the staff of his spear. Decimus stood straight.

It began again.

Decimus did not eat that night.

His portion of a rather watery soup went untouched. The soup itself was not meant to nourish him, rather, Decimus had been encouraged to steal.

At first, he refused. He would not lower himself to that of a common thief. Then his hunger caused his performance to fail, and he suffered Anaximander's wrath. He stole some bread and meat the same night, but as soon as he ate it, Decimus was shamed.

At was at this point that he remembered how Quintus, Sextus, and he had acquired their horses, formerly of the Macedonian Companion Cavalry.

Stealing food felt a little better after each bite.

But that was not the issue this evening.

Anaximander's words kept him awake, restless. Before arriving in Megara and submitting to the Spartan training regimen, he was so sure of himself. The combat against the demons had steadied his resolve, prepared his spirit. He had proven to himself that he could conquer anything… but he still lacked his confidence.

Something important was coming, and Anaximander… no, Mars himself, did not think Decimus was ready.

And so he could not eat.

As the entire camp slept, including his two friends, Decimus stayed awake.

After midnight, Decimus left the tent, and took up his arms. He held the Spartan shield and spear, and went through the maneuvers.

In his mind, he played out a thousand different battles and situations. He made decisions about where to send men, what tactics to employ.

He trained until the sun rose.

The first battle came three days later.

A few hundred Athenians hoplites and light cavalry lined up in battle formation ten miles outside of Megara. Three hundred more peltasts, slingers, and other light infantry joined them, and were attacking anything that came out of the city and headed east.

Anaximander mobilized the camp, and marched them out.

Decimus went with them.

Anaximander forced Quintus and Sextus to remain behind, despite heavy protests. These were matters that they were not yet ready to understand, he told them.

Only after Decimus told them to stay did they finally agree.

Gaius Decimus was not allowed to wear the attire or armor of the Spartans, but Anaximander did provide him with a spear and a shield. Among a sea of crimson warriors, he was clad in the skin of the wolf.

Upon making visual contact with the Athenians, Anaximander brought up the Spartans into their battle formation. They had an extra two hundred peltasts and light infantry joining the army.

Anaximander walked out to parlay with the Athenian officers, and took Decimus with him. "Speak only when I tell you to. Retain your composure no matter what happens, do you understand me?"

Decimus nodded. He instinctively felt for the short sword hanging from his belt, and the dagger ready at his back. Just in case, he reasoned. The Spartan training could not completely remove his treacherous resourcefulness.

Two Athenians were waiting on horseback. They dismounted, and nodded politely to greet Decimus and Anaximander.

Anaximander stood taller than both of them. He held his bronze helmet at his side, the tall red plume coming up to his shoulder. He did not offer courtesy. "You are not welcome here, Athenian."

The larger Athenian spoke now. He was dressed in the traditional armor of the ancient city, in armor that looked brand new. He was the leader of this force, apparently. "Pardon me, officer of Sparta, but we have official business with the city of Megara."

"On whose authority?"

The second Athenian, a smaller man, more portly, now presented a scroll of papyrus, "By order of the Second Hellenic League, the city of Megara has been deemed in violation of League regulation. They have not submitted their required tribute in monies nor men. By refusing all attempts at diplomatic solution, the member states have resolved that military force may be levied against the city should its obstinate attitude continue. Dated the twenty fourth of Skirophorion- -"

Anaximander cut the man off, "Megara is member of no league nor alliance. It is not bound by your petty laws and regulations."

"Megara was a founding member of the First Hellenic League. The Second League's constitution clearly states that all previous members have been generously allowed membership in the new league. Therefore, our laws hold," the smaller said.

"I think, friend Teukros," the larger said, "the more important issue, is why a Spartan army is defending Megara." He gave a condescending look to Anaximander, "Tell me, officer of Sparta, why are you involving yourself in affairs that do not concern you? Please do not tell me that times are so bad in great Sparta that she has turned her warriors into mercenaries." He sneered, his lip curling over his teeth, "Again."

Anaximander nodded slowly, biting his lower lip. "Tell me your name, Athenian."

"I am Heraklides of Athens."

Anaximander smiled, and bowed politely, "I shall look for you on the battlefield today."

He turned and went back to the army, Decimus following after.

"Well, they wouldn't surrender," Anaximander said as he stood in front of his troops. The men laughed.

"Another day at work for us, my men. We are outnumbered, naturally. I can't recall a battle I've fought with you where the numerical odds have been even. Frankly, I would not accept it any other way.

"Listen to your officers, follow my commands, and trust your training. I need not implore you to act bravely, or fight fiercely, for such words would be wasted upon you," Anaximander spoke. He paced in front of the hushed warriors, continuing his address.

Decimus could not believe the silence. There was no murmuring, no nervous chatter. Every last soldier, from the elite Spartan warriors down to the peltasts and Megara militia, were completely silent as Anaximander spoke to them.

"Remember what you protect. Remember that Megara is not just a city we have come to aid. It is your honor. If they fall, we fall.

"Some of you might wonder why we are fighting for another city. The Athenians there call us mercenaries, nothing more than hired weapons. But know this: This is your war. We have the power to defend the weak, and for us to idly stand by and not interfere would be an affront to the gods. My comrades… my brothers… my friends… Stand tall and fight bravely. Know that you are the sons of Sparta, and find joy in it!"

Anaximander put his helm upon his head, and stepped into the front line, at the corner of one of the phalanxes. Decimus walked into position with him.

The silence was broken by a single baritone voice. Anaximander started to sing the paean, and lead the march into battle. He beat his spear upon his shield, and instantaneously, every Spartan joined in singing, beating their shields simultaneously with their march.

As if by instinct, Decimus knew the words, though he could never recall hearing the song before. They neared the Athenians and halted, still singing.

The Athenian Heraklides pulled back the reins on his horse, pacing in front of his soldiers, crying out any enthusiasm that he could come up with. Though they were almost within missile rang, Decimus could not hear a word Heraklides was shouting. The song of the Spartans drowned out all other sounds.

Decimus could see the Athenian hoplites trembling.

Heraklides raised his sword, and signaled for the peltasts to attack. Javelins were launched into the air, the afternoon sky darkened by the flying missiles.

"Shields!" Anaximander called.

Instantaneously, the Spartan soldiers raised their shields, locking them above their heads. With a dull thud, Decimus felt a javelin impale itself into his shield. The first volley stopped, and Decimus lowered his shield. More than three-fourths of the javelins didn't even past the first line of the Spartans.

Decimus pulled the missile free from his shield, and quickly tied it to the back of it. His thoughts flashed back to his legionary training, and of his own lethal marksmanship with a pilum.

Heraklides raised his arm, and signaled the charge. The Athenian trumpets bellowed, barely heard over the paean. The hoplites overcame the peltasts, lowering their spears for the assault. The distances closed.

"On my signal!" Anaximander cried out.

The dust was rising, the clouds blinding the battlefield. The thunder of the Athenian charge challenged the Spartan paean for dominance, but even that could not drown out the war song.

"Stand fast!"

Decimus could see the silhouettes of the Athenians slowly forming in the dust clouds.

"On my mark! Ready yourselves!"

He saw the first break through.

"Now!" Anaximander shouted.

Suddenly, the Spartan lines broke, splitting the phalanx, forming an opening just large enough to fit a man.

The Spartan peltasts came up from the rear, filling the gaps, and launched their javelins. The front line of Athenians stood no chance. The second line fell over the corpses of the first. Another salvo of missiles cut through the dust cloud, dead men falling with spears stuck through them. The Athenian infantry was too stunned to halt the charge. They pushed through the dead, spears lowered.

"Reform the lines!"

With perfect precision, the peltasts fell back and the Spartan phalanx locked back into position. The Athenians closed to within fifteen feet.

"Attack!" Anaximander roared.

The spears were lowered.

The crash shook the heavens as the Athenian hoplites broken upon the Spartan lines like water upon rock. The rear lines trampled the front, trying to push forward against the immovable wall.

Anaximander called out orders and various cries of encouragement, but the sounds of battle were deafening.

Decimus caught an Athenian spear upon his shield, and pushed it back. The soldier stumbled for a moment, and Decimus stabbed him in the thigh for the mistake. The point nearly pierced through his leg, and Decimus almost broke the spear trying to pull it out.

The order was given to drive forward, and the phalanx started to push against the mass of Athenians. The Spartan threw their weight behind their shields. The unbroken line of shields, emblazoned with the crimson lambda, moved like a enormous monster, a beast out of the age of Titans brought back to cast down the Athenians for merely daring to challenge the might of the Spartan army.

A cloud of missiles flew overhead from the peltasts at the rear, the javelins coming down from the sky onto the Athenians.

For an instant, a gap appeared in the Athenian line, as three men who stood together on the front were felled by falling javelins. An instant was all the Spartans needed.

Anaximander himself led the charge into the hole. The front line of the Spartans transformed into a triangle, breaking into the gap, and then reforming into a phalanx once inside.

The Athenians broke and started to run.

The Spartans followed, continuing to advance at their methodic pace, not allowing the rout to break their discipline.

At the rear, Heraklides was forming up his cavalry, and cursing the Macedonians. The Companions that Macedon had pledged were conveniently absent after being sent to attack a Megaran caravan. Heraklides would have to make due with only a hundred or so Greek cavalry. Leading the horsemen himself, he took them to the left flank.

He raised his sword and signaled for the slingers to advance with the peltasts. He sent the light infantry to the right flank to protect the missile troops, and to be ready to trap the Spartans when his own cavalry charged. He would trap the impetuous Lacedaemonians and finish them this time. With or without the allies, he would not allow them to escape this time.

Heraklides signaled the archers, and readied his charge.

The arrows came in droves.

Decimus caught a pair of missiles upon his shield as he watched the man next to him take an arrow in the shoulder. Blood stained his crimson cloak, but he barely grimaced underneath his helmet. Decimus reached across and broke the arrow off of the man, garnering a nod of respect from the Spartan at his side.

"Stand fast! They will not break us!" Anaximander shouted.

As the Spartans drove back the bulk of the Athenian infantry, slingers hurled rocks at the crimson cloaked soldiers, joined by peltasts. The light infantry attacked the Spartan left, and the left phalanx was forced to turn to engage.

The center phalanx, where Decimus was, broke from its rigid formation, still holding shape but trying to fill in the gaps made by the left flank's maneuvers.

A stone hit off of Decimus' helm, stunning him and ringing his head. He muttered something about being cursed with so many blows to the head, but he could not finish his thought before he heard the sound of the cavalry horn.

The Athenian cavalry came up on the right, led by Heraklides, shouting out cries of encouragement to his men, his sword swinging wildly.

The Spartan right tried to reform to block the charge with their spears, but the horsemen were upon them too fast. The Athenians broke through, scattering the men. The right side had transformed into a mob fight, and the chaos threatened to spill into the center.

Seeing that the Athenian hoplites were starting to regain their composure and prepare another attack, Anaximander knew that he could not abandon the center to join the hand to hand fighting on the right, nor reinforce the left against the light infantry.

Anaximander called up the peltasts. The center phalanx let them pass through, and the javelin throwers moved to engage the reformed Athenian hoplites. Anaximander then split the center phalanx into two.

He turned to Decimus, and screamed at him, "Take this half to join the left flank! Funnel the Athenians back to the center and then reform as part of the left flank! Trap them against their hoplites and their own cavalry!"

"But --"

Anaximander struck him on the side of the head with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet, "Damn it, Decimus! Lead them!"

With that, Anaximander left with the right half of the phalanx, to join the battle with the cavalry.

Decimus was unsure of himself, wishing that the burden had fallen on another. He then saw the Spartans looking at him.

"Sir! Orders!"

He looked ahead and saw the left flank in a pitched battle, the phalanx formation already abandoned for hand to hand combat.

He didn't have time to hesitate.

"Quickly, to the left of the fighting, then reform and turn into them! We need to drive them to the center! Go!" Decimus then ran, without checking to see if they would follow.

He need not have doubted.

They circled around the left flank, stopped dead just beyond the battle, and turned back in, lowering their spears. Decimus took a deep breath, and then tightened his grip around the shaft of his spear. He marched forward, and started to sing in a loud voice, greater than the fury of the battle, chanting the paean.

The men at his side joined in, and the warriors of Sparta joined the fray.

Heraklides swung his curved sword, striking the faceplate of a Spartan. The blade crashed upon the helm, splitting it, and cutting deep into the man's face.

The cavalry charge had temporarily broken the Spartan's flank, but though the phalanx had collapsed, their fighting spirit had not faltered.

The charge came to halt before he could push to the center, and his plans slowly unraveled. The hand to hand fighting was devastating his horsemen, and now the Spartans seemed to be rallying again. Gods, even the peltasts were driving back the hoplites at the center.

This was not a good day.

Gaius Decimus stood over a fallen enemy, his spear embedded into the man's chest. He pulled the weapon out, thick jets of blood shooting from the wound.

He broke the lines after the initial charge, and started the hand to hand fighting. The men were ordered to maintain a loose formation however, ready to move into position again at a moment's notice.

He found the officer in command of the left flank, and relieved him of his duty. His mind moved at an unimaginable speed. The entire battle played out in his head, a thousand different variations and scenarios ready to be called upon.

An Athenian bum rushed him, and knocked his shield loose. Decimus reacted instantaneously, flowing with the attack, and knocked the man to the ground with his spear. He swung the giant weapon up into the air, and drove the bronze butt into the man's back, impaling him into the plain.

He pulled his weapon loose, and grabbed his shield. He leveled the spear forward, and charged into a pack of the enemy, roaring with the fury of Mars' avenger.

Anaximander tried to silence his hearty laughter as Decimus' men overran the Athenian light infantry. The hoplites and support troops routed as Decimus turned towards the center, and drove mercilessly to the right, slaughtering all those who dared stand in the way of his fury.

Instead, he tightened his grip around his short sword, his spear long since broken and lost. He held his shield close, and smiled grimly.

It was a good day.

Teukros, the short, fat Athenian nobleman, rode upon his nervous horse, terrified himself yet still trying to rally his cavalry to his side. He shouted out encouragement to his men, swinging his sword in the air, calling them to remember their oaths to the gods, to the Hellenic League.

The Spartans were overrunning them, and Heraklides was too proud to lead a retreat. The men needed to run for their lives otherwise they would be cut down by the crimson warriors. No, Teukros himself needed to run for his life, or else he would be captured and tortured and killed at the Spartans pleasure. He knew what the Spartans would do to Athenians – he heard the stories.

His eyes went wide as the reformed left flank of the Spartans, under command not of a red cloaked soldier, but a wolf. Teukros' horse neighed and went up on its hind legs. Teukros was thrown from his steed, and the animal took off, running for its life.

The Athenian nobleman scrambled to his feet, and reached for his sword.

He turned around to see Gaius Decimus lower his spear, and put the weapon through his chest, driving out his back. He solemnly cursed the day he agreed to lead an army to conquer Megara, and wished he stayed on the couch at his estate.

Decimus snapped the spear when he tried to pull it free from the Athenian nobleman, the long weapon still embedded in his body. Decimus dropped the useless shaft, and drew his short sword, a weapon he was far more comfortable with anyway.

The fighting was ferocious here, with the Spartans completely free of ranks and battling anything that came within range. Horses fell dead, cavalrymen cut down when they were knocked from their steeds.

In the chaos, Decimus found Anaximander. The Spartan was surrounded, two wounded comrades lying at his feet and four Athenian soldiers closing in.

Anaximander swung his shield at one, breaking the man's neck. He then bounced back with his sword, stabbing into the ribs of the next, driving the blade deep. Anaximander yanked the weapon free, blood splattering across his breastplate. Another slash, and the third fell, his head cut from his shoulders.

The fourth was smart enough to run away.

Anaximander now saw Decimus, and called to him, "Ha! These dogs are driven before us like the cowards they are! Another bloody day for the sons of Sparta!"

From behind Anaximander, Heraklides charged with his horse. He raised his sword up, ready to strike the deathblow on the Spartan.

Decimus reacted quickly. He pulled loose the javelin he captured at the start of the battle, and tossed it to Anaximander, "Behind you!"

Anaximander caught the javelin, turned, and smiled at the attacking Athenian general, "I told you I would find you!"

The Spartan threw the javelin, and struck Heraklides in the chest. He dropped his sword, and slumped forward, his eyes glassy. The man's horse turn and ran, Heraklides bouncing limply in the saddle.

Seeing their general fallen, the last of the Athenians routed, fleeing for their lives, running back to their camp. The Spartans pursued them for only a few hundred yards, before falling back.

Anaximander pulled off his bronze helmet, dropping it onto the bloodstained plain. Steam came off the man, his long dark hair flying as he shook out his head.

Decimus pulled off his own helmet, and dropped his sword and shield. He was breathing heavily, and bleeding from several nicks and cuts.

The two men sat upon the ground, and shared a knowing glance. Decimus ran his fingers through his long, dirty hair, and looked up at the sky. He took a deep breath. He suddenly felt very exhausted.

"… It was at once a sight equally magnificent and terrifying when they marched in step with the rhythm of the flute, without any gap in their line of battle, and with no confusion in their souls, but calmly and cheerfully moving with the strains of their hymn to their deadly fight." (Plutarch, Lycurgus 22.2-3)

98


End file.
